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. 7 ^- 



When A Man’s 
A Man 


A Novel 


By HAROLD BELL WRIGHT 

Author of 


“That Printer of Udell’s,” “The Shepherd of the Hills,” 
“The Eyes of the World,*’ Etc. 



With Illustrations and Decorations 
By the Author 


A. L. BURT COMPANY 
Publishers New York 

Published by Arrangements with The Book Supply Company 














When a Man’s a Man 

Copyright, 1916 
By HAROLD BELL WRIGHT 

Copyright, 1916 

By ELSBERY W. REYNOLDS 
All Rights Reserved 

' 2 ! 


Published August, 1916 
Printed in the United States of America 






TO MY SONS 

Gilbert and Paul and Normal 
This Story of Manhood 
is affectionately dedicated 

BY THEIR FATHER 


0 


Acknowledgment 

I T is fitting that I should here express my indebted¬ 
ness to those Williamson Valley friends who in 
the kindness of their hearts made this story possible. 

To Mr. George A. Carter, who so generously 
introduced me to the scenes described in these pages, 
and who, on the Pot-Hook-S ranch, gave to my 
family one of the most delightful summers we have 
ever enjoyed; to Mr. J. H. Stephens and his family, 
who so cordially welcomed me at rodeo time; to 
Mr. and Mrs. Joe Contreras, for their kindly hos¬ 
pitality; to Mr. and Mrs. J. W. Stewart, who, W’hile 
this story was first in the making, made me so much 
at home in the Cross-Triangle home-ranch; to Mr. 
J. W. Cook, my constant companion, helpful guide, 
patient teacher and tactful sponsor, who, with his 
charming wife, made his home mine; to Mr. and 
Mrs. Herbert N. Cook, and to the many other cattle¬ 
men and cowboys, with whom, on the range, in the 
rodeos, in the wild horse chase about Toohey, after 
outlaw cattle in Granite Basin, in the corrals and 
pastures, I rode and worked and lived, my gratitude 
is more than I can put in words. Truer friends 
or better companions than these great-hearted, out¬ 
spoken, hardy riders, no man could have. If my 
story in any degree wins the approval of these, my 
comrades of ranch and range, I shall be proud and 
happy. H. B. W. 


‘Camp Hole-in-the-Mountain’ 
Near Tucson, Arizona 
April 29, 1916 


contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. After the Celebration. 11 

II. On the Divide. 23 

III. In the Big Pasture. 35 

IV. At the Corral. 47 

V. A Bit of the Past. 81 

VI. The Drift Fence . 91 

VII. Things That Endure. 115 

VIII. Concerning Brands . 133 

IX. The Tailholt Mountain Outfit. . 159 

X. The Podeo. 181 

XI. After the Podeo. 197 

XII. Frontier Day... 239 

XIII. In Granite Basin. 261 

XIV. At Mint Spring . 281 

XV. On Cedar Ridge. 297 

XVI. The Sky Line . 323 



















I 














HERE is a land where a man, to live, must be a man. 

It is a land of granite and marble and porphyry 
and gold—and a man’s strength must be as the 
strength of the primeval hills. It is a land of oaks 
and cedars and pines—and a man’s mental grace must 
be as the grace of the untamed trees. It is a land of 
far-arched and unstained skies, where the wind sweeps free 
and untainted, and the atmosphere is the atmosphere of those 
places that remain as God made them—and a man’s soul 
must be as the unstained skies, the unburdened wind, and 
the untainted atmosphere. It is a land of wide mesas, of 
wild, rolling pastures and broad, untilled, valley meadows— 
and a man’s freedom must be that freedom which is not 
bounded by the fences of a too weak and timid convention¬ 
alism. 


11 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


In this land every man is—by divine right—his own 
king; he is his own jury, his own counsel, his own judge, and 
—if it must be—his own executioner. And in this land where 
a man, to live, must be a man, a woman, if she be not a 
woman, must surely perish. 



This is the story of a man who regained that which in his 
youth had been lost to him; and of how, even when he had 
recovered that which had been taken from him, he still paid 
the price of his loss. It is the story of a woman who was 
saved from herself; and of how she was led to hold fast to 
those things, the loss of which cost the man so great a price. 

The story, as I have put it down here, begins at Prescott, 
Arizona, on the day following the annual Fourth-of-July cele¬ 
bration in one of those far-western years that saw the passing 
of the Indian and the coming of the automobile. 

The man was walking along one of the few roads that 
lead out from the little city, through the mountain gaps and 
passes, to the wide, unfenced ranges, and to the lonely scat¬ 
tered ranches on the creeks and flats and valleys of the great 
open country that lies beyond. 

From the fact that he was walking in that land where the 
distances are such that men most commonly ride, and from 
the many marks that environment and training leave upon i - 
all, it was evident that the pedestrian was a stranger. Ke 
was a man in the prime of young manhood—tall and exceed¬ 
ingly well proportioned—and as he went forward along xh 

12 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


dusty road lie bore himself with the unconscious air of one 
more accustomed to crowded streets than to that rude and 
unpaved highway. His clothing bore the unmistakable stamp 
of a tailor of rank. His person was groomed with that nicety 
of detail that is permitted only to those who possess both 
means and leisure, as well as taste. It was evident, too, from 
his movement and bearing, that he had not sought the mile- 
high atmosphere of Prescott with the hope that it holds out 
to those in need of health. But, still, there was a something 
about him that suggested a lack of the manly vigor and 
strength that should have been his. 

A student of men would have said that Nature made this 
man to be in physical strength and spiritual prowess, a com¬ 
rade and leader of men—a man’s man—a man among men. 
The same student, looking more closely, might have added 
that in some way—through some cruel trick of fortune—this 
man had been cheated of his birthright. 

The day was still young when the stranger gained the top 
of the first hill where the road turns to make its steep and 
winding way down through scattered pines and scrub oak to 
the Burnt Banch. 

Behind him the little city—so picturesque in its mountain 
basin, with the wild, unfenced land coming down to its very 
dooryards—was slowly awakening after the last mad night 
of its celebration. The tents of the tawdry shows that had 
tempted the crowds with vulgar indecencies, and the booths 
that had sheltered the petty games of chance where loud- 
voiced criers had persuaded the multitude with the hope of 
winning a worthless bauble or a tinsel toy, were being cleared 


13 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


away from the borders of the plaza, the beauty of which their 
presence had marred. In the plaza itself—which is the heart 
of the town, and is usually kept with much pride and care— 
the bronze statue of the vigorous Rough Rider Bucky O’Neil 
and his spirited charger seemed pathetically out of place 
among the litter of colored confetti and exploded fireworks, 
and the refuse from various “treats” and lunches left by the 
celebrating citizens and their guests. The flags and hunting 
that from window and roof and pole and doorway had 
given the day its gay note of color hung faded and listless, 
as though, spent with their gaiety, and mutely conscious that 
the spirit and purpose of their gladness was past, they waited 
the hand that would remove them to the ash barrel and the 
rubbish heap. 

Pausing, the man turned to look back. 

Eor some minutes he stood as one who, while determined 
upon a certain course, yet hesitates—reluctant and regretful 
—at the beginning of his venture. Then he went on; walk¬ 
ing with a certain reckless swing, as though, in ignorance of 
that land toward which he had set his face, he still resolutely 
turned his hack upon that which lay behind. It was as though, 
for this man, too, the gala day, with its tinseled bravery and 
its confetti spirit, was of the past. 

A short way down the hill the man stopped again. This 
time to stand half turned, with his head in a listening atti¬ 
tude. The sound of a vehicle approaching from the way 
whence he had come had reached his ear. 

As the noise of wheels and hoofs grew louder a strange 
expression of mingled uncertainty, determination, and som<- 


14 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


thing very like fear came over his face. He started forward, 
hesitated, looked hack, then turned doubtfully toward the 
thinly wooded mountain side. Then, with tardy decision he 
[eft- the road and disappeared behind a clump of oak bushes, 
an instant before a team and buckboard rounded the turn and 
appeared in full view. 

An unmistakable cattleman—grizzly-haired, square- 
shouldered and substantial—was driving the wild looking 
team. Beside him sat a motherly woman and a little boy. 

As they passed the clump of bushes the near horse of the 
half-broken ,pair gave a catlike bound to the right against his 
■racemate. A second jump followed the first with flash-like 
quickness; and this time the frightened animal was accom¬ 
panied by his companion, who, not knowing what it was all 
lout, jumped on general principles. But, quick as they 
ire, the strength of the driver’s skillful arms met their 
light on the reins and forced them to keep the road. 

I “You blamed fools”—the driver chided good-naturedly, 
they plunged ahead—“been raised on a cow ranch to get 
red at a calf in the brush!” 

Very slowly the stranger came from behind the bushes. 
Ltiously he returned to the road. His fine lips curled in a 
ous mocking smile. But it was himself that he mocked, for 
je was a look in his dark eyes that gave to his naturally 
,ng face an almost pathetic expression of self-depreciation 
[ shame. 

As the pedestrian crossed the creek at the Burnt Banch, 
5 Conley, leading a horse by a riata which was looped as 
lad fallen about the animal’s neck, came through the big 


15 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


corral gate across the road from the house. At the barn Joe 
disappeared through the small door of the saddle room, the 
coil of the riata still in his hand, thus compelling his mount 
to await his return. 

At sight of the cowboy the stranger again paused and 
stood hesitating in indecision. But as Joe reappeared from 
the bam with bridle, saddle blanket and saddle in hand, the 
man went reluctantly forward as though prompted by son? 
necessity. 

“Good morning!” said the stranger, courteously, and hi 
voice was the voice that fitted his dress and bearing, while hi 
face was now the carefully schooled countenance of a mai 
world-trained and well-poised. 

With a quick estimating glance Joe returned the stran 
ger’s greeting and, dropping the saddle and blanket on tl 
ground, approached his horse’s head. Instantly the anima 
sprang back, with head high and eyes defiant; but there w 
no escape, for the rawhide riata was still securely held by h 
master. There was a short, sharp scuffle that sent the gravi 
by the roadside flying—the controlling bit was between the 
reluctant teeth—and the cowboy, who had silently taken the 
horse’s objection as a matter of course, adjusted the blanket, 
and with the easy skill of long practice swung the heav ; 
saddle to its place. 

As the cowboy caught the dangling cinch, and with a s tj- 
hand tucked the latigo strap through the ring and dre 
tight, there was a look of almost pathetic wistfulness or 
watching stranger’s face—a look of wistfulness and admn >? 
tion and envy. 


16 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


' cropping the stirrup, Joe again faced the stranger, this 
tune inquiringly, with that bold, straightforward look so 
c cteristic of his kind. 

nd now, when the man spoke, his voice had a curious 
< as if the speaker had lost a little of his poise. It was 
t a note of apology, and again in his eyes there was that 
pi ;if il look of self-depreciation and shame. 

“Pardon me,” he said, “but will you tell me, please, am 
I r ht that this is the road to the Williamson Valley?” 

he stranger’s manner and voice were in such contrast to 
his Bneral appearance that the cowboy frankly looked his 
wonder as he answered courteously, “Yes, sir.” 

“And it will take me direct to the Cross-Triangle Ranch ?” 

“If you keep straight ahead across the valley, it will. If 
you take the right-hand fork on the ridge above the goat 
ranch, it will take you to Simmons. There’s a road from 
Simmons to the Cross-Triangle on the far side of the valley, 
though. You can see the valley and the Cross-Triangle home 
ranch from the top of the Divide.” 

“Thank you.” 

The stranger was turning to go when the man in the blue 
jumper and fringed leather chaps spoke again, curiously. 

“The Dean with Stella and Little Billy passed in the 
buckboard less than an hour ago, on their way home from the 
celebration. Funny they didn’t pick you up, if you’re goin’ 
there!” 

The other paused questioningly. “The Dean?” 

The cowboy smiled. “Mr. Baldwin, the owner of the 
Cross-Triangle, you know.” 


17 


WHEY A MAY’S A MAY 


“Oh!” The stranger was clearly embarrassed. Perhaps 
he was thinking of that clump of hushes on the mountain side. 

Joe, loosing his riata from the horse’s neck, and coiling it 
carefully, considered a moment. Then: “You ain’t goin’ to 
walk to the Cross-Triangle, be you ?” 

That self-mocking smile touched the man’s lips; but there 
was a hint of decisive purpose in his voice as he answered, 
“Oh, yes.” 

Again the cowboy frankly measured the stranger. Then 
he moved toward the corral gate, the coiled riata in one hand, 
the bridle rein in the other. “I’ll catch up a horse for you,” 
he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if reaching a decision. 

The other spoke hastily. “Yo, no, please don’t trouble.” 

Joe paused curiously. “Any friend of Mr. Baldwin’s is 
welcome to anything on the Burnt Ranch, Stranger.” 

“But I—ah—I—have never met Mr. Baldwin,” ex¬ 
plained the other lamely. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” returned the cowboy heartily. 
"“You’re a-goin’ to, an’ that’s the same thing.” Again he 
started toward the gate. 

“But I—pardon me—you are very kind—but I—I prefer 
to walk.” 

Once more Joe halted, a puzzled expression on his tanned 
and weather-beaten face. “I suppose you know it’s some 
walk,” he suggested doubtfully, as if the man’s ignorance 
were the only possible solution of his unheard-of assertion. 

“So I understand. But it will be good for me. Really, 
I prefer to walk.” 

Without a word the cowboy turned back to his horse, and 
18 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


proceeded methodically to tie the coiled riata in its plape on 
the saddle. Then, without a glance toward the stranger who 
stood watching him in embarrassed silence, he threw the 
bridle reins over his horse’s head, gripped the saddle horn 
and swung to his seat, reining his horse awaj from the man 
beside the road. 


The stranger, thus abruptly dismissed, moved 
away. 


hurriedjy 


Half way to the creek the cowboy checked his horse and 
looked back at the pedestrian as the latter was making his 
way under Efte pines and up the hill. When the man had 
disappeared over the crest of the hill, the cowboy muttered 
a bewildered something, and, touching his horse with the 
spurs, loped away, as if dismissing a problem too complex for 
his simple mind. 

All that day the stranger followed the dusty, unfenced 
road. Over his head the wide, bright sky was without a cloud 
to break its vast expanse. On the great, open range of moun¬ 
tain, flat and valley the cattle lay quietly in the shade of oak 
or walnut or cedar, or, with slow, listless movement, sought 
the watering places to slake their thirst. The wild things re- 
is to their secret hiding places in rocky den and leafy 
thicket To await the cool of the evening hunting hour. The 
very air was motionless, as if the never-tired wind itself 
drowsed indolently. 

And alone in the hushed bigness of that land the man 
walked with his thoughts—brooding, perhaps, over whatever 
it was that had so strangely placed him there—dreaming, it 
may be, over that which might have been, or that which yet 


19 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


might be—viewing with questioning, wondering, half-fearful 
eves the mighty, untamed scenes that met his eye on every 
hand. Nor did anyone see him, for at every sound of ap¬ 
proaching horse or vehicle he w T ent aside from the highway 
to hide in the bushes or behind convenient rocks. And always 
when he came from his hiding place to resume his journey 
that odd smile of self-mockery was on his face. 

At noon he rested for a little beside the road while he ate 
a meager sandwich that he took from the pocket of his coat. 
Then he pushed on again, with grim determination, deeper 
and deeper into the heart and life^^f that wenfft which was, 
to him, so evidently new and strange. The afternoon was 
well spent when he made his way—wearily now, with droop¬ 
ing shoulders and dragging step—up the long slope of the 
Divide that marks the eastern boundary of the range about 
Williamson Valley. 

At the summit, where the road turns sharply around a 
shoulder of the mountain and begins the steep descent on the 
other side of the ridge, he stopped. His tired form straight¬ 
ened. His face lighted with a look of wondering awe, and an 
involuntary exclamation came from his lips as his unaccus¬ 
tomed eyes swept the wide view that lay from his feet un¬ 
rolled before him. 

Under that sky, so unmatched in its clearness and depth 
of color, the land lay in all its variety of valley and forest 
and mesa and mountain—a scene unrivaled in the magnifi¬ 
cence and grandeur of its beauty. Miles upon miles in the 
distance, across those primeval reaches, the faint blue peak- 
and domes and ridges of the mountains ranked—an un„ 


20 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


counted sentinel host. The darker masses of the timbered 
hillsides, with the varying shades of pine and cedar, the 
lighter tints of oak brush and chaparral, the dun tones of the 
open grass lands, and the brighter note of the valley meadows’ 
green were defined, blended and harmonized by the overlying 
haze with a delicacy exquisite beyond all human power to 
picture. And in the nearer distances, chief of that army of 
mountain peaks, and master of the many miles that lie within 
their circle, Granite Mountain, gray and^grim, reared its 
mighty bulk of cliff and crag as if in supreme defiance of the 
changing years or the hand of humankind. 

In the heart of that beautiful land upon which, from the 
summit of the Divide, the stranger looked with such rapt 
appreciation, lies Williamson Valley, a natural meadow of 
lush, dark green, native grass. And, had the man’s eyes been 
trained to such distances, he might have distinguished in the 
blue haze the red roofs of the buildings of the Cross-Triangle 
Ranch. 

For some time the man stood there, a lonely figure against 
the sky, peculiarly out of place in his careful garb of the 
cities. The schooled indifference of his Jace was broken. His 
self-depreciation and mockery were forgotten. His dark eyes 
glowed with the fire of excited anticipation—with hope and 
determined purpose. Then, with a quick movement, as 
though some ghost of the past had touched him on the shoul¬ 
der, he looked back on the way he had come. And the light 
in his eyes went out in the gloom of painful memories. His 
countenance, unguarded because of his day of loneliness, grew 
irk with sadness and shame. It was as though he looked 


21 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


beyond the town he had left that morning, with its litter and 
refuse of yesterday’s pleasure, to a life and a world of tawdry 
shams, wherein men give themselves to win by means fair or 
foul the tinsel baubles that are offered in the world’s petty 
games of chance. 

xlnd yet, even as he looked back, there was in the man’s 
face as much of longing as of regret. He seemed as one who, 
realizing that he had reached a point in his life journey—a 
divide, as it were—from which he could see two ways, was 
resolved to turn from the path he longed to follow and to 
take the road that appealed to him the least. As one enlist¬ 
ing to fight in a just and worthy cause might pause a mo¬ 
ment, before taking the oath of service, to regret the ease and 
freedom he was about to surrender, so this man paused on the 
summit of the Divide. 

Slowly, at last, in weariness of body and spirit, he 
stumbled a few feet aside from the road, and, sinking down 
upon a convenient rock, gave himself again to the contempla¬ 
tion of that scene which lay before him. And there was that 
in his movement now that seemed to tell of one who, in the 
grip of some bitter and disappointing experience, was yet 
being forced by something deep in his being to reach out in 
the strength of his manhood to take that which he had been 
denied. 

Again the man’s untrained eyes had failed to note that 
which would have first attracted the attention of one schooled 
in the land that lay about him. He had not seen a tiny mov¬ 
ing speck on the road over which he had passed. A horseman 
was riding toward him. 


22 




AD the man on the Divide noticed the approaching l 
horseman it would have been evident, even to one 
so unacquainted with the country as the stranger, 
that the rider belonged to that land of riders. While 
a distance too great for the eye to distinguish 


still at 

the details of fringed leather chaps, soft shirt, short jumper, 
sombrero, spurs and riata, no one could have mistaken the 
ease and grace of the cowboy who seemed so literally a part 
of his horse. His seat in the saddle was so secure, so easy, 
and his bearing so unaffected and natural, that every move¬ 
ment of the powerful animal ho rode expressed itself rhyth¬ 
mically in his own lithe and sinewy body. 

While the stranger sat wrapped in meditative thought, 
unheeding the approach of the rider, the horseman, coming 
on with a long, swinging lope, watched the motionless figure 
on the summit of the Divide with careful interest. As he 
drew nearer the cowboy pulled his horse down to a walk, and 
from under his broad hat brim regarded the stranger intently. 
He was within a few yards of the point where the man sat 


23 







WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


when the latter caught the sound of the horse’s feet, and, 
with a quick, startled look over his shoulder, sprang up and 
started as if to escape. But it was too late, and, as though on 
second thought, he whirled about with a half defiant air to 
face the intruder. 

The horseman stopped. He had not missed the signifi¬ 
cance of that hurried movement, and his right hand rested 
carelessly on his leather clad thigh, while his grey eyes were 
fixed boldly, inquiringly, almost challengingly, on the man 
he had so unintentionally surprised. 

As he sat there on his horse, so alert, so ready, in his cow¬ 
boy garb and trappings, against the background of Granite 
Mountain, with all its rugged, primeval strength, the rider 
made a striking picture of virile manhood. Of some years 
les3 than thirty, he was, perhaps, neither as tall nor as heavy 
as the stranger; but in spite of a certain boyish look on his 
smooth-shaven, deeply-bronzed face, he bore himself with 
the unmistakable air of a matured and self-reliant man. 
Every nerve and fiber of him seemed alive with that vital 
energy which is the true beauty and the glory of life. 

The two men presented a striking contrast. Without 
question one was the proud and finished product of our most 
advanced civilization. It was as evident that the splendid 
manhood of the other had never been dwarfed by the weaken¬ 
ing atmosphere of an over-cultured, too conventional and too 
complex environment. The stranger with his carefully tai¬ 
lored clothing and his man-of-the-world face and bearing was 
as unlike this rider of the unfenced lands as a daintily 


24 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


groomed thoroughbred from the sheltered and guarded stables 
of fashion is unlike a wild, untamed stallion from the hills 
and ranges about Granite Mountain. Yet, unlike as they 
were, there was a something that marked them as kin. The 
man of the ranges and the man of the cities were, deep be¬ 
neath the surface of their beings, as like as the spirited thor¬ 
oughbred and the unbroken wild horse. The cowboy was all 
that the stranger might have been. The stranger was all that 
the cowboy, under like conditions, would have been. 

As they silently faced each other it seemed for a moment 
that each instinctively recognized this kinship. Then into 
the dark eyes of the stranger—as when he had watched the 
cowboy at the Burnt Ranch—there came that look of wistful 
admiration and envy. 

And at this, as if the man had somehow made himself 
known, the horseman relaxed his attitude of tense readiness. 
The hand that had held the bridle rein to command instant 
action of his horse, and the hand that had rested so near 
the rider’s hip, came together on the saddle horn in care¬ 
less ease, while a boyish smile of amusement broke over 
the young man’s face. 

That smile brought a flash of resentment into the eyes 
of the other and a flush of red darkened his untanned cheeks. 
A moment he stood; then with an air of haughty rebuke he 
deliberately turned his back, and, seating himself again, 
looked away over the landscape. 

But the smiling cowboy did not move. For a moment as 
he regarded the stranger his shoulders shook with silent, con- 


25 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


temptuous laughter; then his face became grave, and he 
looked a little ashamed. The minutes passed, and still he sat 
there, quietly waiting. 

Presently, as if yielding to the persistent, silent presence 
of the horseman, and submitting reluctantly to the intrusion, 
the other turned, and again the two who were so like and 
yet so unlike faced each other. 

It was the stranger now who smiled. But it was a smile 
that caused the cowboy to become on the instant kindly con¬ 
siderate. Perhaps he remembered one of the Dean’s favorite 
sayings-: “Keep your eye on the man who laughs when he’s 
hurt.” 

“Good evening!” said the stranger doubtfully, but with 
a hint of conscious superiority in his manner. 

“Howdy!” returned the cowboy heartily, and in his deep 
voice was the kindliness that made him so loved by all who 
knew him. “Been having some trouble ?” 

“If I have, it is my own, sir,” retorted the other coldly. 

“Sure,” returned the horseman gently, “and you’re wel¬ 
come to it. Every man has all he needs of his own, I reckon. 
But I didn’t mean it that way; I meant your horse.” 

The stranger looked at him questioningly. “Beg pardon ?” 
he said. 

“What?” 

“I do not understand.” 

“Your horse—where is your horse?” 

“Oh, yes! Certainly—of course—my horse—how stupid 
of me!” The tone of the man’s answer was one of half 
apology, and he was smiling whimsically now as if at his own 


26 



WHEX A MAX’S A MAX 


predicament, as he continued. “I have no horse. Really, 
you know, I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I had it.” 

“You don’t mean to say that you drifted all the way out 
here from Prescott on foot!” exclaimed the astonished cow¬ 
boy. 

The man on the ground looked up at the horseman, and 
in a droll tone that made the rider his friend, said, while he 
stretched his long legs painfully: “I like to walk. You see 
I—ah—fancied it would be good for me, don’t you know.” 

The cowboy laughingly considered—trying, as he said 
afterward, to figure it out. It was clear that this tall stranger 
was not in search of health, nor did he show any of the 
distinguishing marks of the tourist. He certainly appeared 
to be a man of means. He could not be looking for work. 
He did not seem a suspicious character—quite the contrary— 
and yet—there was that significant hurried movement as if 
to escape when the horseman had surprised him. The 
etiquette of the country forbade a direct question, but— 

“Yes,” he agreed thoughtfully, “walking comes in handy 
sometimes. I don’t take to it much myself, though.” Then 
he added shrewdly, “You were at the celebration, I reckon.” 

The stranger’s voice betrayed quick enthusiasm, but that 
odd wistfulness crept into his eyes again and he seemed to 
lose a little of his poise. 

“Indeed I was,” he said. “I never saw anything to com¬ 
pare with it. I’ve seen all kinds of athletic sports and con¬ 
tests and exhibitions, with circus performances and riding, 
and that sort of thing, you know, and I’ve read about such 
things, of course, but”—and his voice grew thoughtful— 

27 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“that men ever actually did them—and all in the day’s work, 
as you may say—I—I never dreamed that there were men 
like that in these days.” 

The cowboy shifted his weight uneasily in the saddle, 
while he regarded the man on the ground curiously. “She 
was sure a humdinger of a celebration,” he admitted, “but 
as for the show part I’ve seen things happen when nobody 
was thinking anything about it that would make those stunts 
at Prescott look funny. The horse racing was pretty good, 
though,” he finished, with suggestive emphasis. 

The other did not miss the point of the suggestion. “I 
didn’t bet on anything,” he laughed. 

“It’s funny nobody picked you up on the road out here,” 
the cowboy next offered pointedly. “The folks started home 
early this morning—and Jim Reid and his family passed me 
about an hour ago—they were in an automobile. The Sim¬ 
mons stage must have caught up with you somewhere.” 

The stranger’s face flushed, and he seemed trying to find 
some answer. 

The cowboy watched him curiously; then in a musing 
tone added the suggestion, “Some lonesome up here on foot.” 

“But there are times, you know,” returned the other 
desperately, “when a man prefers to be alone.” 

The cowboy straightened in his saddle and lifted his reins. 
“Thanks,” he said dryly, “I reckon I’d better be moving.” 

But the other spoke quickly. “I beg your pardon, Mr. 
Acton, I did not mean that for you.” 

The horseman dropped his hands again to the saddle 
horn, and resumed his lounging posture, thus tacitly accept- 

28 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


lg the apology. “You have the advantage of me,” he said. 

The stranger laughed. “Everyone knows that ‘Wild 
j orse Phil’ of the Cross-Triangle Ranch won the bronco- 
ling championship yesterday. I saw you ride.” 

Philip Acton’s face showed boyish embarrassment. 

The other continued, with his strange enthusiasm. “It 
was great work-—wonderful! I never saw anything like it.” 

There was no mistaking the genuineness of his admira¬ 
tion, nor could he hide that wistful look in his eyes. 

“Shucks!” said the cowboy uneasily. “I could pick a 
dozen of the boys in that outfit who can ride all around me. 
It was just my luck, that’s all—I happened to draw an easy 
one.” 

“Easy 1” ejaculated the stranger, seeing again in his mind 
the fighting, plunging, maddened, outlawed brute that thi3 
boy-faced man had mastered. “And I suppose catching and 
throwing those steers was easy, too?” 

The cowboy was plainly wondering at the man’s peculiar 
enthusiasm for these most commonplace things. “The rop- 
‘ng ? Why, that was no more than we’re doing all the time.” 

“I don’t mean the roping,” returned the other, “I mean 
when you rode up beside one of those steers that was run¬ 
ning at full speed, and caught him by the horns with your 
bare hands, and jumped from your saddle, and threw the 
beast over you, and then lay there with his horns pinning 
you down! You aren’t doing that all the time, are you? 
You don’t mean to tell me that such things as that are a part 
of your everyday work!” 

“Oh, the bull doggin’! Why, no,” admitted Phil, with 


29 



WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 

an embarrassed laugh, “that was just fun, you know. 

The stranger stared at him, speechless. Fun! In th 
name of all that is most modern in civilization, what mannei 
of men were these who did such things in fun! If this was 
their recreation, what must their work be! 

“Do you mind my asking," he said wistfully, “how you 
learned to do such things ?" 

“Why, I don't know—we just do them, I reckon." 

“And could anyone learn to ride as you ride, do you 
think ?" The question came with marked eagerness. 

“I don't see why not," answered the cowboy honestly. 

The stranger shook his head doubtfully and looked away 
over the wild land where the shadows of the late afternoon 
were lengthening. 

“Where are you going to stop to-night ?" Phil Acton asked 
suddenly. 

The stranger did not take his eyes from the view that 
seemed to hold for him such peculiar interest. “Really," he 
answered indifferently, “I had not thought of that." 

“I should think you'd be thinking of it along about supper 
time, if you've walked from town since morning." 

The stranger looked up with sudden interest; but the 
cowboy fancied that there was a touch of bitterness under 
the droll tone of his reply. “Do you know, Mr. Acton, I have 
never been really hungry in my life. It might be interesting 
to try it once, don't you think ?” 

Phil Acton laughed, as he returned, “It might be interest¬ 
ing, all right, but I think I better tell you, just the same, 


30 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

that there’s a ranch down yonder in the timber. It’s nothing 
but a goat ranch, but I reckon they would take you in. It’s 
too far to the Cross-Triangle for me to ask you there. You 
can see the buildings, though, from here.” 

The stranger sprang up in quick interest. “You can ? 
The Cross-Triangle Ranch ?” 

“Sure,” the cowboy smiled and pointed into the distance. 
“Those red spots over there are the roofs. Jim Reid’s place 
—the Pot-Hook-S—is just this side of the meadows, and a 
little to the south. The old Acton homestead—where I was 
born—is in that bunch of cottonwoods, across the wash from 
the Cross-Triangle.” 

But strive as he might the stranger’s eyes could discern 
no sign of human habitation in those vast reaches that lay 
before him. 

“If you are ever over that way, drop in,” said Phil 
cordially. “Mr. Baldwin will be glad to meet you.” 

“Do you really mean that?” questioned the other doubt¬ 
fully. 

“We don’t say such things in this country if we don’t 
mean them, Stranger,” was the cool retort. 

“Of course, I beg your pardon, Mr. Acton,” came the 
confused reply. “I should like to see the ranch. I may— 
I w in— That is, if I—” He stopped as if not knowing 
how to finish, and with a gesture of hopelessness turned away 
to stand silently looking back toward the town, while his face 
was dark with painful memories, and his lips curved in that 
mirthless, self-mocking smile. 


31 


WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


And Philip Acton, seeing, felt suddenly that he had 
rudely intruded upon the privacy of one who had sought the 
solitude of that lonely place to hide the hurt of some bitter 
experience. A certain native gentleness made the man of the 
ranges understand that this stranger was face to face with 
some crisis in his life—that he was passing through one of 
those trials through which a man must pass alone. Had it 
been possible the cowboy would have apologized. But that 
would have been an added unkindness. Lifting the reins 
and sitting erect in the saddle, he said indifferently, “Well, 
I must be moving. I take a short cut here. So long! Better 
make it on down to the goat ranch—it’s not far.” 

He touched his horse with the spur and the animal sprang 
away. 

“Good-bye!” called the stranger, and that wistful look 
was in his eyes as the rider swung his horse aside from the 
road, plunged down the mountain side, and dashed away 
through the brush and over the rocks with reckless speed. 
With a low exclamation of wondering admiration, the man 
climbed hastily to a higher point, and from there watched 
until horse and rider, taking a steeper declivity without check¬ 
ing their breakneck course, dropped from sight in a cloud of 
dust. The faint sound of the sliding rocks and gravel dis¬ 
lodged by the flying feet died away; the cloud of dust dis¬ 
solved in the thin air. The stranger looked away into the blue 
distance in another vain attempt to see the red spots that 
marked the Cross-Triangle Ranch. 

Slowly the man returned to his seat on the rock. The 


32 


WHEN A HAN’S A* iff AN 

long shadows of Granite Mountain crept out from the bas^, 
of the cliffs farther and farther over the country below. The 
blue of the distant hills changed to mauve with deeper masses 
of purple in the shadows where the canyons are. The lonely 
figure on the summit of the Divide did not move. 

The sun hid itself behind the line of mountains, and the 
blue of the sky in the west changed slowly to gold against 
which the peaks and domes and points were silhouetted as 
if cut by a graver’s tool, and the bold cliffs and battlements 
of old Granite grew coldly gray in the gloom. As the night 
came on and the details of its structure were lost, the mourn 
tain, to the watching man on the Divide, assumed the appear¬ 
ance of a mighty fortress—a fortress, he thought, to which a 
generation of men might retreat from a civilization that 
threatened them with destruction; and once more the man 
faced back the way he had come. 

The far-away cities were already in the blaze of their 
own artificial lights—lights valued not for their power to 
make men see, but for their power to dazzle, attract and 
intoxicate—lights that permitted no kindly dusk at eventide 
wherein a man might rest from his day’s work—a quiet hour; 
lights that revealed squalid shame and tinsel show—lights 
that hid the stars. The man on the Divide lifted his face 
to the stars that now in the wide-arched sky were gathering 
in such unnumbered multitudes to keep their sentinel watch 
over the world below. 

The cool evening wind came whispering over the lonely 
land, and all the furred and winged creatures of the night 


3 


WHM A MAN’S A MAN 

stole from their dark hiding places into the gloom which is 
the beginning of their day. A coyote crept stealthily past in 
the dark and from the mountain side below came the weird, 
ghostly call of its mate. An owl drifted by on silent wings. 
Night birds chirped in the chaparral. A fox barked on the 
ridge above. The shadowy form of a bat flitted here and 
there. From somewhere in the distance a bull bellowed his 
deep-voiced challenge. 

Suddenly the man on the summit of the Divide sprang 
to his feet and, with a gesture that had he not been so alone 
might have seemed affectedly dramatic, stretched out his 
arms in an attitude of wistful longing while his lips moved 
as if, again and again, he whispered a name. 



34 






IN THE BIG PASTURE. 

N the Williamson Valley country the spring 
round-up, or “rodeo,” as it is called in Arizona, 
and the shipping are well over by the last of June. 
During the long summer weeks, until the begin¬ 
ning of the fall rodeo in September, there is little for 
the riders to do. The cattle roam free on the open ranges, 
while calves grow into yearlings, yearlings become two-year- 
olds, and two-year-olds mature for the market. On the 
Cross-Triangle and similar ranches, three or four of the 
steadier year-round hands only are held. These repair and 
build fences, visit the watering places, brand an occasional 
calf that somehow has managed to escape the dragnet of the 
rodeo, and with “dope bottle” ever at hand doctor such ani¬ 
mals as are afflicted with screwworms. It is during these 
weeks, too, that the horses are broken; for, with the hard 
and dangerous work of the fall and spring months, there is 
always need for fresh mounts. 

The horses of the Cross-Triangle were never permitted to 
run on the open range. Because the leaders of the numerous 

35 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


bands of wild horses that roamed over the country about 
Granite Mountain were always ambitious to gain recruits 
for their‘harems from their civilized neighbors, the freedom 
of the ranch horses was limited by the fences of a four- 
thousand-acre pasture; But within these miles of barbed 
wire boundaries the brood mares with their growing progeny 
lived as free and untamed as their wild cousins on the 
unfenced lands about them. The colts, except for one painful 
experience, when they were roped and branded, from the day 
of their birth until they were ready to be broken were never 
handled. 

On the morning following his meeting with the stranger 
on the Divide Phil Acton, with two of his cowboy helpers, 
rode out to the big pasture to bring in the band. 

The owner of the Cross-Triangle always declared that 
Phil was intimately acquainted with every individual horse 
and head of stock between the Divide and Camp Wood Moun¬ 
tain, and from Skull Valley to the Big Chino. In moments 
of enthusiasm the Dean even maintained stoutly that his 
young foreman knew as well every coyote, fox, badger, deer, 
antelope, mountain lion, bobcat and wild horse that had home 
or hunting ground in the country over which the lad had 
ridden since his babyhood. Certain it is that cr Wild Horse 
Phil,” as he was called by admiring friends—for reasons 
which you shall hear—loved this work and life to which he 
was bom. Every feature of that wild land, from lonely 
mountain peak to hidden canyon spring, was as familiar to 
him as the streets and buildings of a man’s home city are 
well known to the one reared among them. And as he rode 


36 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


that morning with his comrades to the day’s work the young 
man felt keenly the call of the primitive, unspoiled life that 
throbbed with such vital strength about him. He could not 
have put that which he felt into words; he was not even 
conscious of the forces that so moved him; he only knew that 
he was glad. 

The days of the celebration at Prescott had been enjoy¬ 
able days. To meet old friends and comrades; to ride with 
them in the contests that all true men of his kind love; to 
compare experiences and exchange news and gossip with 
widely separated neighbors—had been a pleasure. But the 
curious crowds of strangers; the throngs of sightseers from 
the, to him, unknown world of cities, who had regarded him 
as they might have viewed some rare and little-known crea¬ 
ture in a menagerie, and the brazen presence of those unclean 
parasites and harpies that prey always upon such occasions 
had oppressed, and disgusted him until he was glad to escape 
again to the clean freedom, the pure vitality and the unspoiled 
spirit of his everyday life and environment. In an overflow 
of sheer physical and spiritual energy he lifted his horse into 
a run and with a shrill cowboy yell challenged his companions 
to a wild race to the pasture gate. 

It was some time after noon when Phil checked his horse 
near the ruins of an old Indian lookout on the top of Black 
Hill. Below, in the open land above Deep Wash, he could 
see his cowboy companions working the band of horses that 
had been gathered slowly toward the narrow pass that at the 
eastern end of Black Hill leads through to the flats at the 
upper end of the big meadows, and so to the gate and to the 

37 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


way they would follow to the corral. It was Phil’s purpose 
to ride across Black Hill down the western and northern 
slope, through the cedar timber, and, picking up any horses 
that might be ranging there, join the others at the gate. In 
the meanwhile there was time for a few minutes rest. Dis¬ 
mounting, he loosed the girths and lifted saddle and blanket 
from Hobson’s steaming back Then, while the good horse, 
wearied with the hard riding and the steep climb up the 
mountain side, stood quietly in the shade of a cedar his 
master, stretched on the ground near by, idly scanned the 
world that lay below and about them. 

Very clearly in that light atmosphere Phil could see the 
trees and buildings of the home ranch, and, just across the 
sandy wash from the Cross-Triangle, the grove of cottonwoods 
and walnuts that hid the little old house where he was born. 
A mile away, on the eastern side of the great valley meadows, 
he could see the home buildings of the Reid ranch—the Pot- 
Hook-S—where Kitty Reid had lived all the days of her life 
except those three years which she had spent at school in the 
East. 

The young man on the top of Black Hill looked long at 
the Reid home. In his mind he could see Kitty dressed in 
some cool, simple gown, fresh and dainty after the morning’s 
housework, sitting with book or sewing on the front porch. 
The porch was on the other side of the house, it is true, and 
the distance was too great for him to distinguish a person 
in any case, but all that made no difference to Phil’s vision 
—he could see her just the same. 

Kitty had been very kind to Phil at the celebration. 


38 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


But Kitty was always kind—nearly always. But in spite ©f 
her kindness the cowboy felt that she had not, somehow, 
seemed to place a very high valuation upon the medal he had 
won in the bronco-riding contest. Phil himself did not greatly 
value the medal; but he had wanted greatly to win that 
championship because of the very substantial money prize 
that went with it. Thaf money, in Phil’s mind, was to play 
a very important part in a long cherished dream that was 
one of the things that Phil Acton did not talk about. He 
had not, in fact, ridden for the championship at all, but for 
his dream, and that was why it mattered so much when Kitty 
seemed so to lack interest in his success. 

As though his subconscious mind directed the movement, 
the young man looked away from Kitty’s home to the distant 
mountain ridge where the night before on the summit of the 
Divide he had met the stranger. All the way home the cow¬ 
boy had wondered about the man; evolving many theories, 
inventing many things to account for his presence, alone and 
on foot, so far from the surroundings to which he was so 
clearly accustomed. Of one thing Phil was sure—the man 
was in trouble—deep trouble. The more that the clean- 
minded, gentle-hearted lad of the great out-of-doors thought 
about it, the more strongly he felt that he had unwittingly 
intruded at a moment that was sacred to the stranger—sacred 
because the man was fighting one of those battles that every 
man must fight—and fight alone. It was this feeling that 
had kept the young man from speaking of the incident to 
anyone—even to the Dean, or to “Mother,” as he called Mrs. 
Baldwin. Perhaps, too, this feeling was the real reason for 


39 


WHE.J A MAN’S A MAN 


PhiFs sense of kinship with the stranger, for the cowboy 
himself had moments in his life that he could permit no man 
to look upon. But in his thinking of the man whose per¬ 
sonality had so impressed him one thing stood out above all 
the rest—the stranger clearly belonged to that world of which, 
from experience, the young foreman of the Cross-Triangle 
knew nothing. Phil Acton had no desire for the world to 
which the stranger belonged, but in his heart there was a 
troublesome question. If—if he himself were more like the 
man whom he had met on the Divide; if—if he knew more 
of that other world; if he, in some degree, belonged to that 
other world, as Kitty, because of her three years in school 
belonged, would it make any difference ? 

From the distant mountain ridge that marks the eastern 
limits of the Williamson Valley country, and thus, in a 
degree, marked the limit of Phil’s world, the lad’s gaze turned 
again to the scene immediately before him. 

The band of horses, followed by the cowboys, were trot¬ 
ting from the narrow pass out into the open fiats. Some of 
the band—the mothers—went quietly, knowing from past 
experience that they would in a few hours be returned to 
their freedom. Others—the colts and yearlings—bewildered, 
curious and fearful, followed their mothers without protest. 
But those who in many a friendly race or primitive battle 
had proved their growing years seemed to sense a coming 
crisis in their lives, hitherto peaceful. And these, as though 
warned by that strange instinct which guards all wild things, 
and realizing that the open ground between the pass and the 
gate presented their last opportunity, made final desperate 

40 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


efforts to escape. With sudden dashes, dodging and doubling, 
they tried again and again for freedom. But always between 
them and the haunts they loved there was a persistent horse¬ 
man. Bunning, leaping, whirling, in their efforts to be every¬ 
where at once, the riders worked their charges toward the 
gate. 

The man on the hilltop sprang to his feet. Hobson threw 
up his head, and with sharp ears forward eagerly watched 
the game he knew so well. With a quickness incredible to 
the uninitiated, Phil threw blanket and saddle to place. As 
he drew the cinch tight, a shrill cowboy yell came up from the 
flat below. 

One of the band, a powerful bay, had broken past the 
guarding horsemen, and was running with every ounce of his 
strength for the timber on the western slope of Black Hill. 
For a hundred yards one of the riders had tried to overtake 
and turn the fugitive; but as he saw how the stride of the 
free horse was widening the distance between them, the cow¬ 
boy turned back lest others follow the successful runaway’s 
example. The yell was to inform Phil of the situation. 

Before the echoes of the signal could die away Phil was 
in the saddle, and with an answering shout sent Hobson down 
the rough mountain side in a w T ild, reckless, plunging run to 
head the, for the moment, victorious bay. An hour later the 
foreman rejoined his companions who were holding the band 
of horses at the gate. The big bay, reluctant, protesting, 
twisting and turning in vain attempts to outmaneuver Hob¬ 
son, was a captive in the loop of “Wild Horse Phil’s” riata. 

In the big corral that afternoon Phil and his helpers. 


41 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


with the Dean and Little Billy looking on, cut out from the 
herd the horses selected to he broken. These, one by one, 
were forced through the gate into the adjoining corral, from 
which they watched with uneasy wonder and many excited 
and ineffectual attempts to follow, when their more fortunate 
companions were driven again to the big pasture. Then Phil 
opened another gate, and the little band dashed wildly 
through, to find themselves in the small meadow pasture 
where they would pass the last night before the one great 
battle of their lives—a battle that would be for them a 
dividing point between those years of ease and freedom which 
had been theirs from birth and the years of hard and useful 
service that were to come. 

Phil sat on his horse at the gate watching with critical 
eye as the unbroken animals raced away. “Some good ones 
in the bunch this year, Uncle Will,” he commented to his 
employer, who, standing on the watering trough in the other 
corral, was looking over the fence. 

“There’s bound to be some good ones in every bunch,” 
returned Mr. Baldwin. “And some no account ones, too,” 
he added, as his foreman dismounted beside him. 

Then, while the young man slipped the bridle from his 
horse and stood waiting for the animal to drink, the older 
man regarded him silently, as though in his own mind the 
Dean’s observation bore somewhat upon Phil himself. That 
was always the way with the Dean. As Sheriff Bellows once 
remarked to Judge Powell in the old days of the cattle rust¬ 
lers’ glory, “Whatever Bill Baldwin says is mighty nigh 
always double-barreled.” 


42 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


There are also two sides to the Dean. Or, rather, to be 
accurate, there is a front and a back. The back—flat and 
straight and broad—indicates one side of his character—the 
side that belongs with the square chin and the blue eyes that 
always look at you with such frank directness. It was this 
side of the man that brought him barefooted and penniless 
to Arizona in those days long gone when he was only a boy 
and Arizona a strong man’s country. It was this side of 
him that brought him triumphantly through those hard years 
of the Indian troubles, and in those wild and lawless times 
made him respected and feared by the evildoers and trusted 
and followed by those of his kind who, out of the hardships 
and dangers of those turbulent days, made the Arizona of 
to-day. It was this side, too, that finally made the barefoot, 
penniless boy the owner of the Cross-Triangle Ranch. 

I do not know the exact number of the Dean’s years— 
I only know that his hair is grey, and that he does not ride 
as much as he once did. I have heard him say, though, that 
for thirty-five years he lived in the saddle, and that the 
Cross-Triangle brand is one of the oldest irons in the State. 
And I know, too, that his back is still flat and broad and 
straight. 

The Dean’s front, so well-rounded and hearty, indicates 
as clearly the other side of his character. And it is this side 
that belongs to the full red cheeks, the ever-ready chuckle or 
laugh; that puts the twinkle in the blue eyes, and the kindly 
tones in his deep voice. It is this side of the Dean’s character 
that adds so large a measure of love to the respect and con¬ 
fidence accorded him by neighbors and friends, business asso- 


43 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

ciates and employees. It is this side of the Dean, too, that, 
in these days, sits in the shade of the big walnut trees— 
planted by his own hand—and talks to the youngsters of the 
days that are gone, and that makes the young riders of this 
generation seek him out for counsel and sympathy and help. 

Three things the Dean knows—cattle and horses and men. 
One thing the Dean will not, cannot tolerate—weakness in 
one who should be strong. Even bad men he admires, if they 
are strong—not for their badness, but for their strength. 
Mistaken men he loves in spite of their mistakes—if only 
they be not weaklings. There is no place anywhere in the 
Dean’s philosophy of life for a weakling. I heard him tell 
a man once—nor shall I ever forget it—“You had better die 
like a man, sir, than live like a sneaking coyote.” 

The Dean’s sons, men grown, were gone from the home 
ranch to the fields and work of their choosing. Little Billy, 
a nephew of seven years, was—as Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin 
said laughingly—their second crop. 

When Phil’s horse—satisfied—-lifted his dripping muzzle 
from the watering trough, the Dean walked with his young 
foreman to the saddle shed. Neither of the men spoke, for 
between them there was that companionship which does not 
require a constant flow of talk to keep it alive. Not until 
the cowboy had turned his horse loose, and was hanging 
saddle and bridle on their accustomed peg did the older man 
speak. 

“Jim Reid’s goin’ to begin breakin’ horses next week.” 

“So I heard,” returned Phil, carefully spreading his sad¬ 
dle blanket to dry. 


44 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The Dean spoke again in a tone of indifference. “He 
wants you to help him.” 

“Me! What’s the matter with Jack?” 

“He’s goin’ to the D.l to-morrow.” 

Phil was examining the wrapping on his saddle horn with 
—the Dean noted—quite unnecessary care. 

“Kitty was over this momin’,” said the Dean gently. 

The young man turned, and, taking off his spurs, hung 
them on the saddle horn. Then as he kicked off his leather 
chaps he said shortly, “I’m not looking for a job as a profes¬ 
sional bronco-buster.” 

The Dean’s eyes twinkled. “Thought you might like tc 
help a neighbor out; just to be neighborly, you know.” 

“Do you want me to ride for Reid ?” demanded Phil. 

“Well, I suppose as long as there’s broncs to bust some¬ 
body’s got to bust ’em,” the Dean returned, without commit¬ 
ting himself. And then, when Phil made no reply, he added 
laughing, “I told Kitty to tell him, though, that I reckoned 
you had as big a string as you could handle here.” 

As they moved away toward the house, Phil returned 
with significant emphasis, “When I have to ride for anybody 
besides you it won’t be Kitty Reid’s father.” 

And the Dean commented in his reflective tone, “It does 
sometimes seem to make a difference who a man rides for, 
don’t it ?” 

In the pasture by the corrals, the horses that awaited the 
approaching trial that would mark for them the beginning 
of a new life passed a restless night. Some in meekness of 
spirit or, perhaps, with deeper wisdom fed quietly. Others 

45 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


wandered about aimlessly, snatching an occasional uneasy 
mouthful of grass, and looking about often in troubled doubt. 
The more rebellious ones followed the fence, searching for 
some place of weakness in the barbed barrier that imprisoned 
them. And one, who, had he not been by circumstance robbed 
of his birthright, would have been the strong leader of a wild 
band, stood often with wide nostrils and challenging eye, 
gazing toward the corrals and buildings as if questioning the 
right of those who had brought him there from the haunts 
he loved. 

And somewhere in the night of that land which was as 
unknown to him as the meadow pasture was strange to the 
unbroken horses, a man awaited the day which, for him too, 
was to stand through all his remaining years as a mark 
between the old life and the new. 

As Phil Acton lay in his bed, with doors and windows 
open wide to welcome the cool night air, he heard the restless 
horses in the near-by pasture, and smiled as he thought of 
the big bay and the morrow—smiled with the smile of a man 
who looks forward to a battle worthy of his best strength 
and skill. 

And then, strangely enough, as he was slipping into that 
dreamless sleep of those who live as he lived, his mind went 
back again to the stranger whom he had met on the summit 
of the Divide. If he were more like that man, would it make 

















AT THE CORRAL. 

H|]N the beginning of the morning, when Granite x! 
Mountain’s fortress-like battlements and towers 
loomed gray and bold and grim, the big bay horse 
trumpeted a warning to his less watchful mates. 
Instantly, with heads high and eyes wide, the band 
stood in frightened indecision. Two horsemen—shadowy 
and mysterious forms in the misty light—were riding from 
the corral into the pasture. 

As the riders approached, individuals in the band moved 
uneasily, starting as if to run, hesitating, turning for another 
look, maneuvering to put their mates between them and the 
enemy. But the bay went boldly a short distance toward the 
danger and stood still with wide nostrils and fierce eyes as 
though ready for the combat. 

For a few moments,, as the horsemen seemed about to go 
past, hope beat high in the hearts of the timid prisoners. 
Then the riders circled to put the band between themselves 
and the corral gate, and the frightened animals knew. But 
always as they whirled and dodged in their attempts to avoid 

47 
















WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

that big gate toward which they were forced to move, there 
was a silent, persistent horseman barring the way. The big 
bay alone, as though realizing the futility of such efforts and 
so conserving his strength for whatever was to follow, trotted 
proudly, boldly into the corral, where he stood, his eyes never 
leaving the riders, as his mates crowded and jostled about 
him. 

“There’s one in that bunch that’s sure aimin’ to make 
you ride some,” said Curly Elson with a grin, to Phil, as 
the family sat at breakfast. 

On the Cross-Triangle the men who were held through 
the summer and winter seasons between the months of the 
rodeos were considered members of the family. Chosen for 
their character, as well as for their knowledge of the country ^ 
and their skill in their work the Dean and “Stella,” as Mrs. 
Baldwin is called throughout all that country, always spoke 
of them affectionately as “our boys.” And this, better than 
anything that could be said, is an introduction to the mistress 
of the Cross-Triangle household. 

At the challenging laugh which followed Curly’s observa¬ 
tion, Phil returned quietly with his sunny smile, “Maybe I’ll 
quit him before he gets good and started.” 

“He’s sure fixin’ to make you back the decision of them 
contest judges,” offered Bob Colton. 

And Mrs. Baldwin, young in spirit as any of her boys, 
added, “Better not wear your medal, son. It might excite 
him to know that you are the champion buster of Arizona.” 

“Shucks!” piped up Little Billy excitedly, “Phil can ride 
anything what wears hair, can’t you, Phil ?” 


48 


WHEY A MAH’S A MAH 


Phil, embarrassed at the laughter which followed, said, 
with tactful seriousness, to his little champion, “That’s right, 
kid. You stand up for your pardner every time, don’t you ? 
You’ll be riding them yourself before long. There’s a little 
sorrel in that bunch that I’ve picked out to gentle for you.” 
He glanced at his employer meaningly, and the Dean’s face 
glowed with appreciation of the young man’s thoughtfulness. 
“That old horse, Sheep, of yours,” continued Phil to Little 
Billy, “is getting too old and stiff for your work. I’ve noticed 
him stumbling a lot lately.” Again he glanced inquiringly 
at the Dean, who answered the look with a slight nod of 
approval. 

“You’d better make him gentle your horse first, Billy,” 
teased Curly. “He might not be in the business when tKht 
big one gets through with him.” 

Little Billy’s retort came in a flash. “Huh, ‘Wild Horse 
Phil’ will be a-ridin’ ’em lonv cfter you’ve got your’n, Curly 
Elson.” 

“Look out, son,” the Dean, when the laugh had 

gone round again. la ’ y be slippin’ a burr under your 
saddle, if you don’t. 7jL< ! the men: “What horse is it 
that you boys think )e such a bad one ? That big 

bay with the blazed 

The cowboys noc i 

“He’s bad, all ri - Phil. 

“Well,” commer A i > an, leaning back in his chair 
and speaking gener; A A sure got a license to be bad. 
His mother was th piece of horse flesh I ever 

knew. Remember I 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Indeed I do,” returned Mrs. Baldwin. “She nearly 
ruined that Windy Jim who came from nobody knew where, 
and bragged that he could ride anything.” 

The Dean chuckled reminiscently. “She sure sent Windy 
back where he came from. But I tell you, boys, that kind 
of a horse makes the best in the world once you get ’em broke 
right. Horses are just like men, anyhow. If they ain’t got 
enough in ’em to fight when they’re bein’ broke, they ain’t 
generally worth breakin’.” 

“The man that rides that bay will sure be a-horseback,” 
said Curly. 

“He’s a man’s horse, all right,” agreed Bob. 

Breakfast over, the men left the house, not too quietly, 
and laughing, jesting and romping like school boys, went out 
to the corrals, with Little Billy tagging eagerly at their heels. 
The Dean and Phil remained for a few minutes at the table. 

“You really oughtn’t to say such things to those boys, 
Will,” reproved Mrs. Baldwin, as she watched them from the 
window. “It encourages them to be wild, and land knows 
they don’t need any encouragement.” 

“Shucks,” returned the Dean, with that gentle note that 
was always in his voice when he spoke to her. “If such talk 
as that can hurt ’em, there ain’t nothin’ that could save ’em. 
You’re always afraid somebody’s goin’ to go bad. Look at 
me and Phil here,” he added, as they in turn pushed their 
chairs back from the table; “you’ve fussed enough over us to 
spoil a dozen men, and ain’t we been a credit to you all the 
time ?” 


50 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


At this they laughed together. But as Phil was leaving 
the house Mrs. Baldwin stopped him at the door to say 
earnestly, “You will be careful to-day, won’t you, son? You 
know my other Phil—” She stopped and turned away. 

The young man knew that story—a story common to that 
land where the lives of men are not infrequently offered a 
sacrifice to the untamed strength of the life that in many 
forms they are daily called upon to meet and master. 

“Never mind, mother,” he said gently. “I’ll be all right.” 
Then more lightly he added, with his sunny smile, “If that 
big bay starts anything with me, I’ll climb the corral fence 
pronto.” 

Quietly, as one who faces a hard day’s work, Phil went 
to the saddle shed where he buckled on chaps and spurs. 
Then, after looking carefully to stirrup leathers, cinch and 
latigos, he went on to the corrals, the heavy saddle under his 
arm. 

Curly and Bob, their horses saddled and ready, were 
making animated targets of themselves for Little Billy, who, 
mounted on Sheep, a gentle old cow-horse, was whirling a 
miniature riata. As the foreman appeared, the cowboys 
dropped their fun, and, mounting, took the coils of their own 
rawhide ropes in hand. 

“Which one will you have first, Phil?” asked Curly, as 
he moved toward the gate between the big corral and the 
smaller enclosure that held the band of horses. 

“That black one with the white star will do,” directed 
Phil quietly. Then to Little Billy: “You’d better get back 


51 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


t 

\ 


there out of the way, pardner. That black is liable to jump 
clear over you and Sheep.” 

“You better get outside, son,” amended the Dean, who 
had come out to watch the beginning of the work. 

“No, no—please, Uncle Will,” begged the lad. “They 
can’t get me as long as I’m on Sheep.” 

Phil and the Dean laughed. 

“I’ll look out for him,” said the young man. “Only,” 
he added to the boy, “you must keep out of the way.” 

“And see that you stick to Sheep, if you expect him to 
take care of you,” finished the Dean, relenting. 

Meanwhile the gate between the corrals had been thrown 
open, and with Bob to guard the opening Curly rode in 
among the unbroken horses to cut out the animal indicated 
by Phil, and from within that circular enclosure, where the 
earth had been ground to fine powder by hundreds of thou¬ 
sands of frightened feet, came the rolling thunder of quick¬ 
beating hoofs as in a swirling cloud of yellow dust the horse 3 
rushed and leaped and whirled. Again and again the fright¬ 
ened animals threw themselves against the barrier that 
hemmed them in; but that fence, built of cedar posts set close 
in stockade fashion and laced on the outside with wire, was 
made to withstand the maddened rush of the heaviest steers. 
And always, amid the confusion of the frenzied animals, the 
figure of the mounted man in their midst could be seen calmly 
directing their wildest movements, and soon, out from the 
crowding, jostling, whirling mass of flying feet and tossing 
manes and tails, the black with the white star shot toward 


52 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


the gate. Bob’s horse leaped aside from the way. Curly’s 
horse was between the black and his mates, and before the 
animal could gather his confused senses he was in the larger 
corral. The day’s work had begun. 

The black dodged skillfully, and the loop of Curly’s riata 
missed the mark. 

“You better let somebody put eyes in that rope, Curly,” 
remarked Phil, laconically, as he stepped aside to avoid a 
wild rush. 

The chagrined cowboy said something in a low tone, so 
that Little Billy could not hear. 

The Dean chuckled. 

Bob’s riata whirled, shot out its snaky length, and his 
trained horse braced himself skillfully to the black’s weight 
on the rope. For a few minutes the animal at the loop end 
of the riata struggled desperately—plunging, tugging, throw¬ 
ing himself this way and that; but always the experienced 
cow-horse turned with his victim and the rope was never 
slack. When his first wild efforts were over and the black 
stood with his wide braced feet, breathing heavily as that 
choking loop began to tell, the strain on the taut riata was 
lessened, and Phil went quietly toward the frightened captive. 

No one moved or spoke. This was not an exhibition the 
success of which depended on the vicious wildness of the 
horse to be conquered. This was work, and it was not Phil’s 
business to provoke the black to extremes in order to exhibit 
his own prowess as a rider for the pleasure of spectators 
who had paid to see the show. The rider was employed to 


53 


WHEN - A MAN’S A MAN 


win the confidence of the unbroken horse entrusted to him; 
to force.obedience, if necessary; to gentle and train, and so 
make of the wild creature a useful and valuable servant for 
the Dean. 

There are riders whose methods demand that they throw 
every unbroken horse given them to handle, and who gentle 
an animal by beating it about the head with loaded quirts, 
ripping its flanks open with sharp spurs and tearing its 
mouth with torturing bits and ropes. These turn over to 
their employers as their finished product horses that are 
broken, indeed—but broken only in spirit, with no heart or 
courage left to them, with dispositions ruined, and often with 
physical injuries from which they never recover. But riders 
of such methods have no place among the men employed by 
owners of the Dean’s type. On the Cross-Triangle, and 
indeed on all ranches where conservative business principles 
are in force, the horses are handled with all the care and 
gentleness that the work and the individuality of the animal 
will permit. 

After a little Phil’s hand gently touched the black’s head. 
Instantly the struggle was resumed. The rider dodged a 
vicious blow from the strong fore hoofs and with a good 
natured laugh softly chided the desperate animal. And so, 
presently, the kind hand was again stretched forth; and then 
a broad band of leather was deftly slipped over the black’s 
frightened eyes. Another thicker and softer rope was knotted 
so that it could not slip about the now sweating neck, and 
fashioned into a hackamore or halter about the animal’s nose. 


54 


WHEX A MAX’S A MAX 


Then the riata was loosed. Working deftly, silently, gently 
■—eve** wary of those dangerous hoofs—Phil next placed 
blanket and saddle on the trembling black and drew the cinch 
tight. Then the gate leading from the corral to the open 
range was swung back. Easily, but quickly and surely, the 
rider swung to his seat. He paused a moment to be sure that 
all was right, and then leaning forward he reached over 
and raised the leather blindfold. Eor an instant the wild, 
unbroken horse stood still, then reared until it seemed he 
must fall, and then, as his forefeet touched the ground again, 
the spurs went home, and with a mighty leap forward the 
frenzied animal dashed, bucking, plunging, pitching, 
through the gate and away toward the open country, followed 
by Curly and Bob, with Little Billy spurring old Sheep, in 
hot pursuit. 

Eor a little the Dean lingered in the suddenly emptied 
corral. Stepping up on the end of the long watering trough, 
close to the dividing fence, he studied with knowing eye the 
animals on the other side. Then leisurely he made his way 
out of the corral, visited the windmill pump, looked in on 
Stella from the kitchen porch, and then saddled Browny, his 
own particular horse that grazed always about the place at 
privileged ease, and rode off somewhere on some business of 
his own. 

When the black horse had spent his strength in a vain 
attempt to rid himself of the dreadful burden that had 
attached itself so securely to his back, he was herded back 
to the corral, where the burden set him free. Dripping with 


oo 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

sweat, trembling in every limb and muscle, wild-eyed, with 
distended nostrils and heaving flanks, the black crowded in 
among his mates again, his first lesson over—his fears of 
ease and freedom past forever. 

“And which will it be this time ?” came Curly’s question. 

“I’ll have that buckskin this trip,” answered Phil. 

And again that swirling cloud of dust raised by those 
thundering hoofs drifted over the stockade enclosure, and out 
of the mad confusion the buckskin dashed wildly through 
the gate to be initiated into his new life. 

And so, hour after hour, the work went on, as horse after 
horse at Phil’s word was cut out of the band and ridden; 
and every horse, according to disposition and temper and 
strength, was different. While his helpers did their part the 
rider caught a few moments rest. Always he was good 
natured, soft spoken and gentle. When a frightened animal, 
not understanding, tried to kill him, he accepted it as evi¬ 
dence of a commendable spirit, and, with that sunny, boyish 
smile, informed his pupil kindly that he was a good horse 
and must not make a fool of himself. 

In so many ways, as the Dean had said at breakfast that 
morning, horses are just like men. 

It was mid-afternoon when the master of the Cross- 
Triangle again strolled leisurely out to the corrals. Phil 
and his helpers, including Little Billy, were just disappearing 
over the rise of ground beyond the gate on the farther side 
of the enclosure as the Dean reached the gate that opens 
toward the barn and house. He went on through the corral, 


56 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


and slowly, as one having nothing else to do, climbed the 
little knoll from which he could watch the riders in the dis¬ 
tance. When the horsemen had disappeared among the scat¬ 
tered cedars on the ridge, a mile or so to the west, the Dean 
still stood looking in that direction. But the owner of the 
Cross-Triangle was not watching for the return of his men. 
He was not even thinking of them. He was looking beyond 
the cedar ridge to where, several miles away, a long, mesa- 
topped mountain showed black against the blue of the more 
distant hills. The edge of this high tabledand broke abruptly 
in a long series of vertical cliffs, the formation known to Ari¬ 
zonians as rim rocks. The deep shadows of the towering 
black wall of cliffs and the gloom of the pines and cedars 
that hid the foot of the mountain gave the place a sinister 
and threatening appearance. 

As he looked, the Dean’s kindly face grew somber and 
stern; his blue eyes were for the moment cold and accusing; 
under his grizzled mustache his mouth, usually so ready to 
smile or laugh, was set in lines of uncompromising firmness. 
In these quiet and well-earned restful years of the Dean’s 
life the Tailholt Mountain outfit was the only disturbing 
element. But the Dean did not permit himself to be long 
annoyed by the thoughts provoked by Tailholt Mountain. 
Philosophically he turned his broad back to the intruding 
scene, and went back to the corral, and to the more pleasing 
occupation of looking at the horses. 

If the Dean had not so abruptly turned his back upon the 
* tdscape, he would have noticed the figure of a man moving 


57 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


slowly along the road that skirted the valley meadow leading 
from Simmons to the Cross-Triangle Ranch. 

Presently the riders returned, and Phil, when he had 
removed saddle, blanket and hackamore from his pupil, seated 
himself on the edge of the watering trough beside the Dean. 

“I see you ain’t tackled the big bay yet,” remarked the 
older man. 

“Thought if I’d let him look on for a while, he might 
figure it out that he’d better be good and not get himself 
hurt,” smiled Phil. “He’s sure some horse,” he added 
admiringly. Then to his helpers: “I’ll take that black with 
the white forefoot this time, Curly.” 

Just as the fresh horse dashed into the larger corral a 
man on foot appeared, coming over the rise of ground to 
the west; and by the time that Curly’s loop was over the 
black’s head the man stood at the gate. One glance told Phil 
that it was the stranger whom he had met on the Divide. 

The man seemed to .understand that it was no time for 
greetings and, without offering to enter the enclosure, climbed 
to the top of the big gate, where he sat, with one leg over the 
topmost bar, an interested spectator. 

The maneuvers of the black brought Phil to that side 
of the corral, and, as he coolly dodged the fighting horse, he 
glanced up with his boyish smile and a quick nod of welcome 
to the man perched above him. The stranger smiled in return, 
but did not speak. He must have thought, though, that 
this cowboy appeared quite different from the picturesque 
rider he had seen at the celebration and on the summit of 


58 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


the Divide. That Phil Acton had been—as the cowboy 
himself would have said—“all togged out in his glad rags.” 
This man wore chaps that were old and patched from hard 
service; his shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, was the color of 
the corral dirt, and a generous tear revealed one muscular 
shoulder; his hat was greasy and battered; his face grimed 
and streaked with dust and sweat, but his sunny, boyish 
smile would have identified Phil in any garb. 

When the rider was ready to mount, and Bob went to 
open the gate, the stranger climbed down and drew a little 
aside. And when Phil, passing where he stood, looked laugh¬ 
ingly down at him from the back of the bucking, plunging 
horse, he made as if to applaud, but checked himself and 
went quickly to the top of the knoll to watch the riders until 
they disappeared over the ridge. 

“Howdy! Pine weather we’re havin’.” It was the Dean’s 
hearty voice. He had gone forward courteously to greet the 
stranger while the latter was watching the riders. 

The man turned impulsively, his face lighted with enthu¬ 
siasm. “By Jove!” he exclaimed, “but that man can ride!” 

“Yes, Phil does pretty well,” returned the Dean indiffer¬ 
ently. “Won the championship at Prescott the other day.” 
Then, more heartily: “He’s a mighty good boy, too—take 
him any way you like.” 

As he spoke the cattleman looked the stranger over criti¬ 
cally, much as he would have looked at a steer or horse, noting 
the long limbs, the well-made body, the strong face and clear, 
dark eyes. The man’s dress told the Dean simply that the 


59 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


stranger was from the city. His bearing commanded the 
older man’s respect. The stranger’s next statement, as he 
looked thoughtfully over the wide land of valley and hill 
and mesa and mountain, convinced the Dean that he w r as a 
man of judgment. 

“Arizona is a wonderful country, sir—wonderful!” 

“Finest in the world, sir,” agreed the Dean promptly. 

* There just naturally can’t he any better. We’ve got the 
climate; we’ve got the land; and we’ve got the men.” 

The stranger looked at the Dean quickly when he said 
“men.” It was worth much to hear the Dean speak that 
word. 

“Indeed you have,” he returned heartily. “I never saw 
such men.” 

“Of course you haven’t,” said the Dean. “I tell you, sir, 
they just don’t make ’em outside of Arizona. It takes a 
country like this to produce real men. A man’s got to be a 
man out here. Of course, though,” he admitted kindly, “we 
don’t know much except to ride, an’ throw a rope, an’ shoot, 
mebby, once in a while.” 

The riders were returning and the Dean and the stranger 
walked back down the little hill to the corral. 

“You have a fine ranch here, Mr. Baldwin,” again 
observed the stranger. 

The Dean glanced at him sharply. Many men had tried 
to buy the Cross-Triangle. This man certainly appeared 
prosperous even though he was walking. But there was no 
accounting for the queer things that city men would do. 


60 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“It does pretty well,” the cattleman admitted. “I manage 
to make a livin’.” 

The other smiled as though slightly embarrassed. Then: 
“Do you need any help ?” 

k Help!” The Dean looked at him amazed. 

“I mean—I would like a position—to work for you, you 
know.” 

The Dean was speechless. Again he surveyed the stranger 
with his measuring, critical look. “You’ve never done any 
work,” he said gently. 

The man stood very straight before him and spoke almost 
defiantly. “No, I haven’t, but is that any reason why I 
should not ?” 

The Dean’s eyes twinkled, as they have a way of doing 
■ when you say something that he likes. “I’d say it’s a better 
reason why you should,” he returned quietly. 

Then he said to Phil, who, having dismissed his four- 
footed pupil, was coming toward them: 

“Phil, this man wants a job. Think we can use him ?” 

The young man looked at the stranger with unfeigned 
surprise and with a hint of amusement, but gave no sign 
that he had ever seen him before. The same natural delicacy 
of feeling that had prevented the cowboy from discussing the 
man upon whose privacy he felt he had intruded that evening 
of their meeting on the Divide led him now to ignore the 
incident—a consideration which could not but command the 
strange man’s respect, and for which he looked his gratitude. 

There was something about the stranger, too, that to Phil 


61 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


seemed different. This tall, well-built fellow who stood before 
them so self-possessed, and ready for anything, was not alto¬ 
gether like the uncertain, embarrassed, half-frightened and 
troubled gentleman at whom Phil had first laughed with 
thinly veiled contempt, and then had pitied. It was as 
though the man who sat that night alone on the Divide had, 
out of the very bitterness of his experience, called forth from 
within himself a strength of which, until then, he had been 
only dimly conscious. There was now, in his face and bear¬ 
ing, courage and decision and purpose, and with it all a 
glint of that same humor that had made him so bitterly mock 
himself. The Dean’s philosophy touching the possibilities of 
the man who laughs when he is hurt seemed in this stranger 
about to be justified. Phil felt oddly, too, that the man was 
in a way experimenting with himself—testing himself as it 
were—and being altogether a normal human, the cowboy felt 
strongly inclined to help the experimenter. In this spirit he 
answered the Dean, while looking mischievously at the 
stranger. 

“We can use him if he can ride.” 

The stranger smiled understandingly. “I don’t see why 
I couldn’t,” he returned in that droll tone. “I seem to have 
the legs.” He looked down at his long lower limbs reflect¬ 
ively, as though quaintly considering them quite apart from 
himself. 

Phil laughed. 

“Huh,” said the Dean, slightly mystified at the apparent 
understanding between the young men. Then to the stranger: 


62 


WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


“What do you want to work for ? You don't look as though 
you needed to. A sort of vacation, heh ?" 

There was spirit in the man's answer. “I want to work 
for the reason that all men want work. If you do not employ 
me, I must try somewhere else." 

“Come from Prescott to Simmons on the stage, did you ?" 

“No, sir, I walked." 

“Walked! Huh! Tried anywhere else for a job?" 

“No, sir." 

“Who sent you out here ?" 

The stranger smiled. “I saw Mr. Acton ride in the con¬ 
test. I learned that he was foreman of the Cross-Triangle 
Ranch. I thought I would rather work where he worked, if 
I could." 

The Dean looked at Phil. Phil looked at the Dean. 
Together they looked at the stranger. The two cowboys who 
were sitting on their horses near-by grinned at each other. 

“And what is your name, sir?" the Dean asked courte¬ 
ously. 

For the first time the man hesitated and seemed embar¬ 
rassed. He looked uneasily about with a helpless inquiring 
glance, as though appealing for some suggestion. 

“Oh, never mind your name, if you have forgotten it," 
said the Dean dryly. 

The stranger’s roaming eyes fell upon Phil's old chaps, 
that in every wrinkle and scar and rip and tear gave such 
eloquent testimony as to the wearer's life, and that curious, 
self-mocking smile touched his lips. Then, throwing up his 


m 


WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 

head and looking the Dean straight in the eye, he said boldly, 
but with that note of droll humor in his voice, “My name is 
Patches, sir, Honorable Patches.” 

The Dean's eyes twinkled, but his face was grave. Phil’s 
face flushed; he had not failed to identify the source of the 
stranger's inspiration. But before either the Dean or Phil 
could speak a shout of laughter came from Curly Elson, and 
the stranger had turned to face the cowboy. 

“Something seems to amuse you,” he said quietly to the 
man on the horse; and at the tone of his voice Phil and the 
Dean exchanged significant glances. 

The grinning cowboy looked down at the stranger in 
evident contempt. “Patches,” he drawled. “Honorable 
Patches! That's a hell of a name, now, ain't it ?” 

The man went two long steps toward the mocking rider, 
and spoke quietly, but with unmistakable meaning. 

“I'll endeavor to make it all of that for you, if you will 
get off your horse.” 

The grinning cowboy, with a wink at his companion, 
dismounted cheerfully. Curly Elson was held to be the best 
man with his hands in Yavapai County. He could not refuse 
so tempting an opportunity to add to his well-earned reputa¬ 
tion. 

Five minutes later Curly lifted himself on one elbow in 
the corral dust, and looked up with respectful admiration to 
the quiet man who stood waiting for him to rise. Curly’s 
lip was bleeding generously; the side of his face seemed to 
have slipped out of place, and his left eye was closing surely 
and rapidly. 


64 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Get up,” said the tall naan calmly. “Tkere is more 
where that came from, if you want it.” 

The cowboy grinned painfully. “I ain’t hankerin’ after 
any more,” he mumbled, feeling his face tenderly. 

“I said that my name was Patches,” suggested the 
stranger. 

“Sure, Mr. Patches, I reckon nobody’ll question that.” 

“Honorable Patches,” again prompted the stranger. 

“Yes, sir. You bet; Honorable Patches,” agreed Curly 
with emphasis. Then, as he painfully regained his feet, he 
held out his hand with as nearly a smile as his battered 
features would permit. “Do you mind shaking on it, Mr. 
Honorable Patches? Just to show that there’s no hard 
feelin’s ?” 

Patches responded instantly with a manner that won 
Curly’s heart. “Good!” he said. “I knew you would do 
that when you understood, or I wouldn’t have bothered to 
show you my credentials.” 

“My mistake,” returned Curly. “It’s them there creden¬ 
tials of yourn, not your name, that’s hell.” 

He gingerly mounted his horse again, and Patches turned 
back to the Dean as though apologizing for the interruption. 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but—about work ?” 

The Dean never told anyone just what his thoughts were 
at that particular moment; probably because they were so 
many and so contradictory and confusing. Whether from 
this uncertainty of mind; from a habit of depending upon 
his young foreman, or because of that something which Phil 
and the stranger seemed to have in common, he shifted the 
65 


WHEN A MAH’S A MAN 


whole matter by saying, “It’s up to Phil here. He’s foreman 
of the Cross-Triangle. If he wants to hire you, it’s all right 
with me.” 

At this the two young men faced each other; and on the 
face of each was a half questioning, half challenging smile. 
The stranger seemed to say, “I know I am at your mercy; 
I don’t expect you to believe in me after our meeting on the 
Divide, but I dare you to put me to the test.” 

And Phil, if he had spoken, might have said, “I felt 
when I met you first that there was a man around somewhere. 
I know you are curious to see what you would do if put to 
the test. I am curious, too. I’ll give you a chance.” Aloud 
he reminded the stranger pointedly, “I said we might use you 
if you could ride.” 

Patches smiled his self-mocking smile, evidently appre¬ 
ciating his predicament. “And I said,” he retorted, “that I 
didn’t see why I couldn’t.” 

Phil turned to his grinning but respectful helpers. 
“Bring out that bay with the blazed face.” 

“Great Snakes!” ejaculated Curly to Bob, as they 
reached the gate leading to the adjoining corral. “His name 
is Patches, all right, but he’ll be pieces when that bay devil 
gets through with him, if he can’t ride. Do you reckon he 
can ?” 

“Dunno,” returned Bob, as he unlatched the gate without 
dismounting. “I thought he couldn’t fight.” 

“So did I,” returned Curly, grimly nursing his battered 
face. “You cut out the horse; I can’t more’n half see.” 


66 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


It was no trouble to cut cut the bay. The big horse 
seemed to understand that his time had come. All day he 
had seen his mates go forth to their testing, had watched 
them as they fought with all their strength the skill and 
endurance of that smiling, boy-faced man, and then had seen 
them as they returned, sweating, trembling, conquered and 
subdued. As Bob rode toward him, he stood for one defiant 
moment as motionless as a horse of bronze; then, with a 
suddenness that gave Curly at the gate barely time to dodge 
his rush, he leaped forward into the larger arena. 

Phil was watching the stranger as the big horse came 
through the gate. The man did not move, but his eyes were 
glowing darkly, his face was flushed, and he was smiling to 
himself mockingly—as though amused at the thought of what 
was about to happen to him. The Dean also was watching 
Patches, and again the young foreman and his employer 
exchanged significant glances as Phil turned and went quickly 
to Little Billy. Lifting the lad from his saddle and seating 
him on the fence above the long watering trough, he said, 
“ There’s a grandstand seat for you, pardner; don’t get down 
unless you have to, and then get down outside. See ?” 

At that moment yells of warning, with a “Look out, 
Phil!” came from Curly, Bob and the Dean. 

A quick look over his shoulder, and Phil saw the big 
horse with ears wickedly flat, eyes gleaming, and teeth bared, 
making straight in his direction. The animal had apparently 
singled him out as the author of his misfortunes, and pro¬ 
posed to dispose of his arch-enemy at the very outset of the 


67 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


battle. There was only one sane thing to do, and Phil did it. 
A vigorous, scrambling leap placed him beside Little Billy 
on the top of the fence above the watering trough. 

“Good thing I reserved a seat in your grandstand for 
myself, wasn’t it, pardner?” he smiled down at the boy by 
his side. 

Then Bob’s riata fell true, and as the powerful horse 
plunged and fought that strangling noose Phil came leisurely 
down from the fence. 

“Where was you goin’, Phil ?” chuckled the Dean. 

“You sure warn’t losin’ any time,” laughed Curly. 

And Bob, without taking his eyes from the vicious animal 
at the end of his taut riata, and working skillfully with his 
trained cow-horse to foil every wicked plunge and wild leap, 
grinned with appreciation, as he added, “I’ll bet four bits 
you can’t do it again, Phil, without a runnin’ start.” 

“I just thought I’d keep Little Billy company for a 
spell,” smiled Phil. “He looked so sort of lonesome up 
there.” 

The stranger, at first amazed that they could turn into 
jest an incident which might so easily have been a tragedy, 
suddenly laughed aloud—a joyous, ringing laugh that made 
Phil look at him sharply. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Acton,” said Patches meekly, 
but with that droll voice which brought a glint of laughter 
into the foreman’s eyes and called forth another chuckle from 
the Dean. 

“You can take my saddle,” said Phil pointedly. “It’s 


6S 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


over there at the end of the watering trough. You’ll find 
the stirrups about right, I reckon—I ride with them rather 
long.” 

For a moment the stranger looked him straight in the 
eyes, then without a word started for the saddle. He was 
half way to the end of the watering trough when Phil over¬ 
took him. 

“I believe I’d rather saddle him myself,” the cowboy 
explained quietly, with his sunny smile. “You see, I’ve got 
to teach these horses some cow sense before the fall rodeo, 
and I’m rather particular about the way they’re handled at 
the start.” 

“Exactly,” returned Patches, “I don’t blame you. That 
fellow seems rather to demand careful treatment, doesn’t he ?” 

Phil laughed. “Oh, you don’t need to be too particular 
about his feelings once you’re up in the middle of him,” he 
retorted. 

The big bay, instead of acquiring sense from his observa¬ 
tions, as Phil had expressed to the Dean a hope that he 
would, seemed to have gained courage and determination. 
Phil’s approach was the signal for a mad plunge in the 
young man’s direction, which was checked by the skill and 
weight of Bob’s trained cow-horse on the rope. Several times 
Phil went toward the bay, and every time his advance was 
met by one of those vicious rushes. Then Phil mounted 
Curly’s horse, and from his hand the loop of another riata 
fell over the bay’s head. Shortening his rope by coiling it 
in his rein hand, he maneuvered the trained horse closer and 


69 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


closer to his struggling captive, until, with Bob’s co-operation 
on the other side of the fighting animal, he could with safety 
fix the leather blindfold over those wicked eyes. 

When at last hackamore and saddle were in place, and 
the bay stood trembling and sweating, Phil wiped the perspi¬ 
ration from his own forehead and turned to the stranger. 

“Your horse is ready, sir.” 

The man’s face was perhaps a shade whiter than its 
usual color, but his eyes were glowing, and there was a grim 
set look about his smiling lips that made the hearts of those 
men go out to him. He seemed to realize so that the joke 
was on himself, and with it all exhibited such reckless indif¬ 
ference to consequences. Without an instant’s hesitation he 
started toward the horse. 

“Great Snakes!” muttered Curly to Bob, “talk about 
nerve!” 

The Dean started forward. “Wait a minute, Mr. 
Patches,” he said. 

The stranger faced him. 

“Can you ride that horse ?” asked the Dean, pointedly. 

“I’m going to,” returned Patches. “But,” he added with 
his droll humor, “I can’t say how far.” 

“Don’t you know that he’ll kill you if he can?” ques¬ 
tioned the Dean curiously, while his eyes twinkled approval. 

“He does seem to have some such notion,” admitted 
Patches. 

“You better let him alone,” said the Dean. “You don’t 
need to kill yourself to get a job with this outfit.” 


70 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“That’s very kind of you, sir,” returned the stranger 
gratefully. “I’m rather glad you said that. But I’m going 
to ride him just the same.” 

They looked at him in amazement, for it was clear to 
them now that the man really could not ride. 

The Dean spoke kindly. “Why?” 

“Because,” said Patches slowly, “I am curious to see 
what I will do under such circumstances, and if I don’t try 
the experiment now I’ll never know whether I have the 
nerve to do it or not.” As he finished he turned and walked 
deliberately toward the horse. 

Phil ran to Curly’s side, and the cowboy at his foreman’s 
gesture leaped from his saddle. The young man mounted 
his helper’s horse, and with a quick movement caught the 
riata from the saddle horn and flipped open a ready loop. 

The stranger was close to the hay’s off, or right, side. 

“The other side, Patches,” called Phil genially. “You 
want to start in right, you know.” 

Not a man laughed—except the stranger. 

“Thanks,” he said, and came around to the proper side. 

“Take your time,” called Phil again. “Stand by his 
shoulder and watch his heels. Take the stirrup with your 
right hand and turn it to catch your foot. Stay back by his 
shoulder until you are ready to swing up. Take your time.” 

“I won’t be long,” returned Patches, as he awkwardly 
gained his seat in the saddle. 

Phil moved his horse nearer the center of the corral, and 
shook out his loop a little. 


71 


WHEN" A MAN’S A MAN 

“When you’re ready, lean over and pull up the blind* 
fold,” he called. 

The man on the horse did not hesitate. With every angry 
nerve and muscle strained to the utmost, the powerful bay 
leaped into the air, coming down with legs stiff and head 
between his knees. For an instant the man miraculously 
kept his place. With another vicious plunge and a cork-screw 
twist the maddened brute went up again, and this time the 
man was flung from the saddle as from a gigantic catapult, 
to fall upon his shoulders and back in the corral dust, where 
he lay still. The horse, rid of his enemy, leaped again; 
then with catlike quickness and devilish cunning whirled, 
and with wicked teeth bared and vicious, blazing eyes, rushed 
for the helpless man on the ground. 

With a yell Bob spurred to put himself between the bay 
and his victim, but had there been time the move would have 
been useless, for no horse could have withstood that mad 
charge. The vicious brute was within a bound of his victim, 
and had reared to crush him with the weight of heavy hoofs, 
when a rawhide rope tightened about those uplifted forefeet 
and the bay himself crashed to earth. Leaving the cow-horse 
to hold the riata tight, Phil sprang from his saddle and ran 
to the fallen man. The Dean came with water in his felt 
hat from the trough, and presently the stranger opened his 
eyes. For a moment he lay looking up into their faces as 
though wondering where he was, and how he happened there. 

“Are you hurt bad ?” asked the Dean. 

That brought him to his senses, and he got to his feet 


72 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


somewhat unsteadily, and began brushing the dust from his 
clothes. Then he looked curiously toward the horse that 
Curly was holding down by the simple means of fitting :r 
the animal’s head. “I certainly thought my legs were long 
enough to reach around him,” he said reflectively. “How in 
the world did he manage it? I seemed to be falling for a 
week.” 

Phil yelled and the Dean laughed until the tears ran 
down his red cheeks, while Bob and Curly went wild. 

Patches went to the horse, and gravely walked around 
him. Then, “Let him up,” he said to Curly. 

The cowboy looked at Phil, who nodded. 

As the bay regained his feet, Patches started toward him. 

“Here,” said the Dean peremptorily. “You come away 
from there.” 

“I’m going to see if he can do it again,” declared Patches 
grimly. 

“Not to-day, you ain’t,” returned the Dean. “You’re 
workin’ for me now, an’ you’re too good a man to be killed 
try in’ any more crazy experiments.” 

At the Dean’s words the look of gratitude in the man’s 
eyes was almost pathetic. 

“I wonder if I am,” he said, so low that only the Dean 
and Phil heard. 

“If you are what?” asked the Dean, puzzled by his 
manner. 

“Worth anything—as a man—you know,” came the 
strange reply. 


73 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The Dean chuckled. “You’ll be all right when you get 
your growth. Come on over here now, out of the way, while 
Phil takes some of the cussedness out of that fool horse.” 

Together they watched Phil ride the bay and return him 
to his mates a very tired and a much wiser pupil. Then, 
while Patches remained to watch further operations in the 
corral, the Dean went to the house to tell Stella all about it. 

“And what do you think he really is ?” she asked, as the 
last of a long list of questions and comments. 

The Dean shook his head. “There’s no tellin’. A man 
like that is liable to be anything.” Then he added, with his 
usual philosophy: “He acts, though, like a genuine thor¬ 
oughbred that’s been badly mishandled an’ has just found it 
out.” 

When the day’s work was finished and supper was over 
Little Billy found Patches where he stood looking across the 
valley toward Granite Mountain that loomed so boldly against 
the soft light of the evening sky. The man greeted the boy 
awkwardly, as though unaccustomed to children. But Little 
Billy, very much at ease, signified his readiness to help the 
stranger to an intimate acquaintance with the world of which 
he knew so much more than this big man. 

He began with no waste of time on mere preliminaries. 

“See that mountain over there? That’s Granite Moun¬ 
tain. There’s wild horses live around there, an’ sometimes 
we catch ’em. Bet you don’t know that Phil’s name is 'Wild 
Horse Phil’.” 

Patches smiled. “That’s a good name for him, isn’t it ?” 


74 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“You bet.” He turned and pointed eagerly to the west. 
“There’s another mountain over there 'I bet you don’t know 
the name of.” 

“Which ene do you mean ? I see several.” 

“That long, black lookin’ one. Ho you know about it ?” 

“I’m really afraid that I don’t.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Billy, proud of his superior 
knowledge. “That there’s Tailholt Mountain.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Yes, and Nick Cambert and Yavapai Joe lives over 
there. Ho you know about them ?” 

The tall man shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that 
I do.” 

Little Billy lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper. 
“Well, I’ll tell you. Only you mus’n’t ever say anything 
’bout it out loud. Nick and Yavapai is cattle thieves. They 
been a-brandin’ our calves, an’ Phil, he’s goin’ to catch ’em 
at it some day, an’ then they’ll wish they hadn’t. Phil, he’s 
my pardner, you know.” 

“And a fine pardner, too, I’ll bet,” returned the stranger, 
as if not wishing to acquire further information about the 
men of Tailholt Mountain. 

“You bet he is,” came the instant response. “Only Jim 
Reid, he don’t like him very well.” 

“That’s too bad, isn’t it ?” 

“Yes. You see, Jim Reid is Kitty’s daddy. They live 
over there.” He pointed across the meadow to where, a mile 
away, a light twinkled in the window of the Pot-IIook-S 


75 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


ranch house. “Kitty Beid’s a mighty nice girl, T tell yon, 
but Jim, he says that there needn’t no cow-puncher come 
around tryin’ to get her, ’cause she’s been away to school, 
you know, an’ I think Phil—” 

“Whoa! Hold on a minute, sonny,” interrupted Patches 
hastily. 

“What’s the matter ?” questioned Little Billy. 

“Why, it strikes me that a boy with a pardner like ‘Wild 
Horse Phil’ ought to be mighty careful about how he talked 
over that pardner’s private affairs with a stranger. Don’t 
you think so ?” 

“Mebbv so,” agreed Billy. “But you see, I know that 
Phil wants Kitty ’cause—” 

“Sh! What in the world is that ?” whispered Patches in 
great fear, catching his small companion by the arm. 

“That! Don’t you know an owl when you hear one? 
Gee! but you’re a tenderfoot, ain’t you ?” Catching sight of 
the Dean who was coming toward them, he shouted gleefully, 
“Uncle Will, Mr. Patches is scared of an owl. What do you 
know about that; Patches is scared of an owl!” 

“Your Aunt Stella wants you,” laughed the Dean. 

And Billy ran off to the house to share his joke on the 
tenderfoot with his Aunt Stella and his “pardner,” Phil. 

“I’ve got to go to town to-morrow,” said the Dean. “I 
expect you better go along and get your trunk, or whatever 
you have and some sort of an outfit. You can’t work in them 
clothes.” 

Patches answered hesitatingly. “Yvhy, I think I can get 
along all right, Mr. Baldwin.” 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“But you’ll want your stuff—your trunk or grip—or 
whatever you’ve got,” returned the Dean. 

“But I have nothing in Prescott,” said the stranger 
slowly. 

“You haven’t ? Well, you’ll need an outfit anyway,” per¬ 
sisted the cattleman. 

“Really, I think I can get along for a while,” Patches 
returned diffidently. 

The Dean considered for a little; then he said with 
straightforward bluntness, but not at all unkindly, “Look 
here, young man, you ain’t afraid to go to Prescott, are you ?” 

The other laughed. “Not at all, sir. It’s not that. I 
suppose I must tell you now, though. All the clothes I have 
are on my back, and I haven’t a cent in the world with which 
to buy an outfit, as you call it.” 

The Dean chuckled. “So that’s it ? I thought mebby you 
was dodgin’ the sheriff. If it’s just plain broke that’s the 
matter, why you’ll go to town with me in the mornin’, an’ 
we’ll get what you need. I’ll hold it out of your wages until 
it’s paid.” As though the matter were settled, he turned back 
toward the house, adding, “Phil will show you where you’re 
to sleep.” 

When the foreman had shown the new man to his room, 
the cowboy asked casually, “Found the goat ranch, all right, 
night before last, did you ?” 

The other hesitated; then he said gravely, “I didn’t look 
for it, Mr. Acton.” 

“You didn’t look for it ?” 

“No, sir.” 


/ 


77 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Do you mean to say that you spent the night up there 
on the Divide without blankets or anything V ’ 

“Yes, sir, I did.” 

“And where did you stop last night ?” 

“At Simmons.” 

“Walked, I suppose?” 

The stranger smiled. “Yes.” 

“But, look here,” said the puzzled cowboy, “I don’t mean 
to be asking questions about what is none of my business, 
but I can’t figure it out. If you were coming out here to 
get a job on the Cross-Triangle, why didn’t you go to Mr. 
Baldwin in town ? Anybody could have pointed him out to 
you. Or, why didn’t you say something to me, when we were 
talking back there on the Divide ?” 

“Why, you see,” explained the other lamely, “I didn’t 
exactly want to work on the Cross-Triangle, or anywhere.” 

“But you told Uncle Will that you wanted to work here, 
and you were on your way when I met you.” 

“Yes, I know, but you see—oh, hang it all, Mr. Acton, 
haven’t you ever wanted to do something that you didn’t 
want to do ? Haven’t you ever been caught in a comer that 
you were simply forced to get out of when you didn’t like the 
only way that would get you out? I don’t mean anything 
criminal,” he added, with a short laugh. 

“Yes, I have,” returned the other seriously, “and if you 
don’t mind there’s no handle to my name. Around here I’m 
just plain Phil, Mr. Patches.” 

“Thanks. Neither does Patches need decorating.” 

“And now, one more,” said Phil, with his winning smile. 

78 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“Why in the name of all the obstinate fools that roam at large 
did yon walk out here when you must have had plenty of 
chances to ride ?” 

“Well, you see,” said Patches slowly, “I fear I can’t 
explain, but it was just a part of my job.” 

“Your job! But you didn’t have any job until this after¬ 
noon.” 

“Oh, yes, I did. I had the biggest kind of a job. You 
see, that’s what I was doing on the Divide all night; trying 
to find some other way to do it.” 

“And do you mind telling me what that job is?” asked 
Phil curiously. 

Patches laughed as though at himself. “I don’t know 
that I can, exactly,” he said. “I think, perhaps, it’s just to 
ride that big bay horse out there.” 

Phil laughed aloud—a hearty laugh of good-fellowship. 
“You’ll do that all right.” 

“Do you think so, really,” asked Patches, eagerly. 

“Sure; I know it.” 

“I wish I could be sure,” returned the strange man doubt¬ 
fully—and the cowboy, wondering, saw that wistful look in 
his eyes. 

“That big devil is a man’s horse, all right,” mused Phil. 

“Why, of course—and that’s just it—don’t you see?” 
cried the other impulsively. Then, as if he regretted his 
words, he asked quickly, “Do you name your horses ?” 

“Sure,” answered the cowboy; “we generally find some¬ 
thing to call them.” 

“And have yo.u named the big bay yet ?” 

79 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

Phil laughed. “I named him yesterday, when he broke 
away as we were bringing the bunch in, and I had to rope him 
to get him back.” 

“And what did you name him ?” 

“Stranger.” 

“Stranger! And why Stranger ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Just one of my fool notions,” returned 
Phil. “Good-night!” 



80 


A BIT OP THE PAST. 




^HE next morning Mr. Baldwin and Patches set 
out for town. 

“I suppose/’ said the Dean, and a slightly 
curious tone colored the remark, “that mebby you’ve 
been used to automobiles. Buck and Prince here, an’ this 
old buckboard will seem sort of slow to you.” 

Patches was stepping into the rig as the Dean spoke. As 
the young man took his seat by the cattleman’s side, the Dean 
nodded to Phil who was holding the team. At the signal 
Phil released the horses’ heads and stepped aside, whereupon 
Buck and Prince, of one mind, looked back over their shoul¬ 
ders, made a few playful attempts to twist themselves out of 
the harness, lunged forward their length, stood straight up 
on their hind feet, then sprang away as if they were fully 
determined to land that buckboard in Prescott within the 
next fifteen minutes 

“Did you say slow?” questioned Patches, as he clung to 
his seat. 





WHEN" A MAN’S A MAN 


The Dean chuckled and favored his new man with a 
twinkling glance of approval. 

A few seconds later, on the other side of the sandy wash, 
the Dean skillfully checked their headlong career, with a 
narrow margin of safety between the team and the gate. 

“I reckon we’ll get through with less fuss if you’ll open 
it,” he said to Patches. Then to Buck and Prince: “Whoa! 
you blamed fools. Can’t you stand a minute ?” 

“Stella’s been devilin’ me to get a machine ever since Jim 
Beid got his,” he continued, while the horses were repeating 
their preliminary contortions, and Patches was regaining 
his seat. “But I told her I’d be scared to death to ride in the 
fool contraption.” 

At this Buck and Prince, in a wild riot of animal strength 
and spirit, leaped a slight depression in the road with such 
vigor that the front wheels of the buckboard left the ground. 
Patches glanced sidewise at his employer, with a smile of 
delighted appreciation, but said nothing. 

The Dean liked him for that. The Dean always insists 
that the hardest man in the world to talk to is the one who 
always has something to say for himself. 

“Why,” he continued, with a burst of honest feeling, “if 
I was ever to bring one of them things home to the Cross- 
Triangle, I’d be ashamed to look a horse or steer in the face.” 

They dashed through a patch of wild sunflowers that in 
the bottom lands grow thick and rank; whirled past the 
tumble-down corner of an old fence that enclosed a long neg¬ 
lected garden; and dashed recklessly through a deserted and 


82 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

weed-grown yard. On one side of the road was the ancient 
bam and stable, with sagging, weather-beaten roof, leaning 
walls and battered doors that hung dejectedly ©n their rusty 
and broken hinges. The corral stockade was breached in 
many places by the years that had rotted the posts. The old- 
time windlass pump that, operated by a blind burro, ©nee 
lifted water for the long vanished herds, was a pathetic old 
wreck, incapable now of offering drink to a thirsty sparrow. 
On their other hand, beneath the wide branches of giant syca¬ 
mores and walnuts, and backed by a tangled orchard wilder¬ 
ness, stood an old house, empty and neglected, as if in the 
shadowy gloom of the untrimmed trees it awaited, lonely and 
forlorn, the kindly hand of oblivion. 

“This is the old Acton homestead,” said the Dean quietly, 
as one might speak beside an ancient grave. 

Then as they were driving through the narrow lane that 
crosses the great meadow, he indicated with a nod of his head 
a group of buildings on the other side of the green fields, and 
something less than a mile to the south. 

“That’s Jim Reid’s place. His iron is the Pot-Hook-S. 
Jim’s stock runs on the old Acton range, but the homestead 
belongs to Phil yet. Jim Reid’s a fine man.” The Dean 
spoke stoutly, almost as though he were making the assertion 
to convince himself. “Yes, sir, Jim’s all right. Good neigh¬ 
bor; good cowman; square as they make ’em. Some folks 
seem to think he’s a mite over-bearin’ an’ rough-spoken some¬ 
times, and he’s kind of quick at suspicionin’ everybody; but 
Jim and me have always got along the best kind.” 


83 


WHEX A MAX’S A MAX 


Again the Dean was silent, as though he had forgotten 
the man beside him in his occupation with thoughts that he 
could not share. 

When they had crossed the valley meadows and, climbing 
the hill on the other side, could see the road for several miles 
ahead, the Dean pointed to a black object on the next ridge. 

“There’s Jim’s automobile now. They’re headin’ for 
Prescott, too. Kitty’s drivin’, I reckon. I tell Stella that 
that machine and Kitty’s learnin’ to run the thing is about 
all the returns that Jim can show for the money he’s spent in 
educatin’ her. I don’t mean,” he added, with a quick look 
at Patches, as though he feared to be misunderstood, “that 
Kitty’s one of them good-for-nothin’ butterfly girls. She 
ain’t that by a good deal. Why, she was raised right here in 
this neighborhood, an’ we love her the same as if she was our 
own. She can cook a meal or make a dress ’bout as well as 
her mother, an’ does it, too; an’ she can ride a horse or throw 
a rope better’n some punchers I’ve seen, hut—” The Dean 
stopped, seemingly for want of words to express exactly his 
thought. 

“It seems to me,” offered Patches abstractedly, “that edu¬ 
cation, as we call it, is a benefit only when it adds to one’s 
life. If schooling or culture, or whatever you choose to term 
it, is permitted to rob one of the fundamental and essential 
elements of life, it is most certainly an evil.” 

“That’s the idea,” exclaimed the Dean, with frank admi¬ 
ration for his companion’s ability to say that which he himself 
thought. “You say it like a book. But that’s it. It ain’t 
the learnin’ an’ all the stuff that Kitty got while she was at 


84 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


school that’s worryin’ us. It’s what she’s likely to lose 
through gettin’ ’em. This here modern, down-to-the-minute, 
higher livin’, loftier sphere, intellectual supremacy idea is 
all right if folks’ll just keep their feet on the ground. 

“You take Stella an’ me now. I know we’re old fashioned 
an’ slow an’ all that, an’ we’ve seen a lot of hardships since 
we was married over in Skull Valley where she was born an’ 
raised. She was just a girl then, an’ I was only a kid, 
punchin’ steers for a livin’. I suppose we’ve seen about as 
hard times as anybody. At least that’s what they would be 
called now. But, hell, we didn’t think nothin’ of it then; we 
was happy, sir, and we’ve been happy for over forty year. 
I tell you, sir, we’ve lived—just lived every minute, and 
that’s a blamed sight more than a lot of these higher-cultured, 
top-lofty, half-dead couples that marry and separate, and 
separate and marry again now-a-days can say. 

“No, sir, ’tain’t what a man gets that makes him rich; 
it’s what he keeps. And these folks that are swoppin’ the 
old-fashioned sort of love that builds homes and raises fam¬ 
ilies and lets man and wife work together, an’ meet trouble 
together, an’ be happy together, an’ grow old bein’ happy 
together—if they’re swoppin’ all that for these here new, 
down-to-date ideas of such things, they’re makin’ a damned 
poor bargain, accordin’ to my way of thinkin’. There is 
such a thing, sir, as educatin’ a man or woman plumb out of 
reach of happiness. 

“Look at our Phil,” the Dean continued, for the man 
beside him was a wonderful listener. “There just naturally 
couldn’t be a better all round man than Phil Acton. He’s 


85 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


healthy; don’t know what it is to have an hour’s sickness; 
strong as a young bull; clean, honest, square, no bad habits, 
a fine worker, an’ a fine thinker, too—even if he ain’t had 
much schoolin’, he’s read a lot. Take him any way you like 
—just as a man, I mean—an’ that’s the way you got to take 
’em—there ain’t a better man that Phil livin’. Yet a lot of 
these folks would say he’s nothin’ but a cow-puncher. As 
for that, Jim Reid ain’t much more than a cow-puncher him¬ 
self. I tell you, I’ve seen cow-punchers that was mighty good 
men, an’ I’ve seen graduates from them there universities 
that was plumb good for nothin’—with no more real man 
about ’em than there is about one of these here wax dummies 
that they hang clothes on in the store windows. What any 
self-respectin’ woman can see in one of them that would make 
her want to marry him is more than I’ve ever been able to 
figger out.” 

If the Dean had not been so engrossed in his own thoughts, 
he would have wondered at the strange effect of his words 
upon his companion. The young man’s face flushed scarlet, 
then paled as though with sudden illness, and he looked -side- 
wise at the older man with an expression of shame and humil¬ 
iation, while his eyes, wistful and pleading, were filled with 
pain. Honorable Patches who had won the admiration of 
those men in the Cross-Triangle corrals was again the 
troubled, shamefaced, half-frightened creature whom Phil 
met on the Divide. 

But the good Dean did not see, and so, encouraged by the 
other’s silence, he continued his dissertation. “Of course, I 
don’t mean to say that education and that sort of thing spoils 


86 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

every man. Now. there’s young Stanford Manning—” 

If the Dean had suddenly fired a gun at Patches, the 
young man could not have shown greater surprise and con¬ 
sternation. Stanford Manning!” he gasped. 

At his tone the Dean turned to look at him curiously. “I 
mean Stanford Manning, the mining engineer,” he explained. 
“Do you know him ?” 

“I have heard of him,” Patches managed to reply. 

“Well,” continued the Dean, “he came out to this country 
about three years ago—straight from college—and he has 
sure made good. He’s got the education an’ culture an’ 
polish an’ all that, an’ with it he can hold his own among any 
kind or sort of men livin’. There ain’t a man—cow-puncher, 
miner or anything else—in Yavapai County that don’t take 
off his hat to Stanford Manning.” 

“Is he in this country now?” asked Patches, with an 
effort at self-control that the Dean did not notice. 

“No, I understand his Company called him back East 
about a month ago. Goin’ to send him to some of their prop¬ 
erties up in Montana, I heard.” 

When his companion made no comment, the Dean said 
reflectively, as Buck and Prince climbed slowly up the grade 
to the summit of the Divide, “I’ll tell you, son, I’ve seen a 
good many changes in this country. I can remember when 
there wasn’t a fence in all Yavapai County—hardly in the 
Territory. And now—why the last time I drove over to 
Skull Valley I got so tangled up in ’em that I plumb lost 
myself. When Phil’s daddy an’ me was youngsters we used 
to ride from Camp Verde and Flagstaff clean to Date Creek 

87 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


without ever openin’ a gate. But I can’t see that men change 
much, though. They’re good and bad, just like they’ve always 
been—an’ I reckon always will be. There’s been leaders and 
weaklin’s and just betwixt and betweens in every herd of 
cattle or band of horses that ever I owned. You take Phil, 
now. He’s exactly like his daddy was before him.” 

“His father must have been a fine man,” said Patches, 
with quiet earnestness. 

The Dean looked at him with an approving twinkle. 
“Fine ?” For a few minutes, as they were rounding the turn 
of the road on the summit of the Divide where Phil and the 
stranger had met, the Dean looked away toward Granite 
Mountain. Then, as if thinking aloud, rather than pur¬ 
posely addressing his companion, he said, “John Acton— 
Honest John, as everybody called him—and I came to this 
country together when we were boys. Walked in, sir, with 
some pioneers from Kansas. We kept in touch with each 
other all the while we was growin’ to be men; punched cattle 
for the same outfits most of the time; even did most of our 
courtin’ together, for Phil’s mother an’ Stella were neighbors 
an’ great friends over in Skull Valley. When we’d finally 
saved enough to get started we located homesteads close 
together back there in the Valley, an’ as soon as we could get 
some sort of shacks built we married the girls and set up 
housekeepin’. Our stock ranged together, of course, but 
John sort of took care of the east side of the meadows an’ I 
kept more to the west. When the children came along—John 
an’ Mary had three before Phil, but only Phil lived—an’ the 


88 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


stock had increased an’ we’d built some decent houses, things 
seemed to be about as fine as possible. Then John went on 
a note for a man in Prescott. I tried my best to keep him 
out of it, but, shucks! he just laughed at me. You see, he 
was one of the best hearted men that ever lived—one of those 
men, you know, that just naturally believes in everybody. 

“Well, it wound up after a-while by John losin’ mighty 
nigh everything. We managed to save the homestead, but 
practically all the stock had to go. An’ it wasn’t more than 
a year after that till Mary died. We never did know just 
what was the matter with her—an’ after that it seemed like 
John never was the same. He got killed in the rodeo that 
same fall—just wasn’t himself somehow. I was with him 
when he died. 

“Stella and me raised Phil—we don’t know any differ¬ 
ence between him and one of our own boys. The old home¬ 
stead is his, of course, but Jim Reid’s stock runs on the old 
range. Phil’s got a few head that he works with mine—a 
pretty good bunch by now—for he’s kept addin’ to what his 
father left, an’ I’ve paid him wages ever since he was big 
enough. Phil don’t say much, even to Stella an’ me, but I 
know he’s figurin’ on fixin’ up the old home place some day.” 

After a long silence the Dean said again, as if voicing 
some conclusion of his unspoken thoughts: “Jim Reid is 
pretty well fixed, you see, an’ Kitty bein’ the only girl, it’s 
natural, I reckon, that they should have ideas about her 
future, an’ all that. I reckon it’s natural, too, that the girl 
should find ranch life away out here so far from anywhere, a 


89 


WHEjST A MAX'S A MAX 


little slow after her three years at school in the East. She 
never says it, but somehow you can most always tell what 
Kitty’s thinkin’ without her speakin’ a word.” 

“I have known people like that,” said Patches, probably 
because there was so little that he could say. 

“Yes, an’ when you know Kitty, you’ll say, like I always 
have, that if there’s a man in Yavapai County that wouldn’t 
ride the hoofs off the best horse in his outfit, night or day, to 
win a smile from her, he ought to be lynched.” 

That afternoon in Prescott they purchased an outfit for 
Patches, and the following day set out for the long return 
drive to the ranch. 

They had reached the top of the hill at the western end 
of the meadow lane, when they saw a young woman, on a 
black horse, riding away from the gate that opens from the 
lane into the Pot-Hook-S meadow pasture, toward the ranch 
buildings on the farther side of the field. 

As they drove into the yard at home, it was nearly supper 
time, and the men were coming from the corrals. 

“Kitty’s been over all the afternoon,” Little Billy in¬ 
formed them promptly. “I told her all about you, Patches. 
She says she’s just dyin’ to see you.” 

Phil joined in the laugh, but Patches fancied that there 
was a shadow in the cowboy’s usually sunny eyes as the young 
man looked at him to say, “That big horse of yours sure made 
me ride some to-day.” 



00 


THE DRIFT FENCE. 



y'T) 

thu . ^ 

HE education of Honorable Patches was begun * 
without further delay. Because PhiPs time was so 
fully occupied with his four-footed pupils, the Dean 
himself became the stranger’s teacher, and all sorts 
of odd jobs about the ranch, from cleaning the pig pen 
to weeding the garden, were the text books. The man balked 
at nothing. Indeed, he seemed to find a curious, grim satis¬ 
faction in accomplishing the most menial and disagreeable 
tasks; and when he made mistakes, as he often did, he laughed 
at himself with such bitter, mocking humor that the Dean 
wondered. 

“He’s got me beat,” the Dean confided to Stella. “There 
ain’t nothin’ that he won’t tackle, an’ I’m satisfied that the 
man never did a stroke of work before in his life. But he 


seems to be always tryin’ experiments with himself, like he 
expected himself to play the fool one way or another, an’ 
wanted to see if he would, an’ then when he don’t he’s as sur¬ 
prised and tickled as a kid.” 

The Dean himself was not at all above assisting his new 



WHEH A MART’S A MAX 


man in those experiments, and so it happened that day when 
Patches had been set to repairing the meadow pasture fence 
near the lower corrals. 

The Dean, riding out that way to see how his pupil was 
progressing, noticed a particularly cross-tempered shorthorn 
bull that had wandered in from the near-by range to water at 
the house corral. But Phil and his helpers were in possession 
of the premises near the watering trough, and his shorthorn 
majesty was therefore even more than usual out of patience 
with the whole world. The corrals were between the bull 
and Patches, so that the animal had not noticed the man, and 
the Dean, chuckling to himself, and without attracting 
Patches’ attention, quietly drove the ill-tempered beast into 
the enclosure and shut the gate. 

Then, riding around the corral, the Dean called to the 
young man. When Patches stood beside his employer, the 
cattleman said, “Here’s a blamed old bull that don’t seem to 
be feelin’ very well. I got him into the corral all right, but 
I’m so fat I can’t reach him from the saddle, I wish you’d 
just halter him with this rope, so I can lead him up to the 
house and let Phil and the boys see what’s wrong with him.” 

Patches took the rope and started toward the corral gate. 
“Shall I put it around his neck and make a hitch over his 
nose, like you do a horse ?” he asked, glad for the opportunity 
to exhibit his newly acquired knowledge of ropes and horses 
and things. 

“Ho, just tie it around his horns,” the Dean answered. 
“He’ll come, all right.” 


92 


WHEIST A MAN’S A MAN 


The bull, seeing a man on foot at the entrance to his 
prison, rumbled a deep-voiced threat, and pawed the earth 
with angry strength. 

For an. instant, Patches, with his hand on the latch of 
the gate, paused to glance from the dangerous-looking animal, 
that awaited his coming, to the Dean who sat on his horse 
just outside the fence. Then he slipped inside the corral and 
closed the gate behind him. The bull gazed at him a moment 
as if amazed at the audacity of this mere human, then lowered 
his head for the charge. 

“Climb that gate, quick,” yelled the Dean at the critical 
moment. 

And Patches climbed—not a second too soon. 

Prom his position of safety he smiled cheerfully at the 
Dean. “He came all right, didn’t he ?” 

The Dean’s full rounded front and thick shoulders shook 
with laughter, while Senor Bull dared the man on the gate 
to come down. 

“You crazy fool,” said the Dean admiringly, when he 
could speak. “Didn’t you know any better than to go in 
there on foot ?” 

“But you said you wanted him,” returned the chagrined 
Patches. 

“What I wanted,” chuckled the Dean, “was to see if you 
had nerve enough to tackle him.” 

“To tell the truth,” returned Patches, with a happy laugh, 
“that’s exactly what interested me.” 

But, while the work assigned to Patches during those first 


93 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


days of his stay on the Cross-Triangle was chiefly those odd 
jobs which called for little or no experience, his higher educa¬ 
tion was by no means neglected. A wise and gentle old cow- 
horse was assigned to him, and the Dean taught him the 
various parts of his equipment, their proper use, and how 
to care for them. And every day, sometimes in the morning, 
sometimes late in the afternoon, the master found some 
errand or business that would necessitate his pupil riding 
with him. When Phil or Mrs. Baldwin would inquire about 
the Dean’s kindergarten, as they called it, the Dean would 
laugh with them, but always he would say stoutly, “Just you 
wait. He’ll be as near ready for the rodeo this fall as them 
pupils in that kindergarten of Phil’s. He takes to ridin’ like 
the good Lord had made him specially for that particular job. 
He’s just a natural-born horseman, or I don’t know men. 
He’s got the sense, he’s got the nerve, an’ he’s got the dis¬ 
position. He’s goin’ to make a top hand in a few months, 
if”—he always added with twinkling eyes—“he don’t get 
himself killed tryin’ some fool experiment on himself.” 

“I notice just the same that he always has plenty of help 
in his experimentin’,” Mrs. Baldwin would return dryly, 
which saying indicted not only the Dean but Phil and every 
man on the Cross-Triangle, including Little Billy. 

Then came that day when Patches was given a task that 
—the Dean assured him—is one of the duties of even the 
oldest and best qualified cowboys. Patches was assigned to 
the work of fenceriding. But when the Dean rode out with 
his pupil early that morning to where the drift fence begins 
at the comer of the big pasture, and explained that “riding 

94 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


a fence” meant, in ranch language, looking for breaks and 
repairing any such when found, he did not explain the pecu¬ 
liarities of that particular kind of fence. 

“I told him to be sure and be back by night,” he chuckled, 
as he explained Patches’ absence at dinner to the other mem¬ 
bers of the household. 

“That was downright mean of you, Will Baldwin,” chided 
Stella, with her usual motherly interest in the comfort of her 
boys. “You know the poor fellow will lose himself, sure, out 
in that wild Tailholt Mountain country.” 

The boys laughed. 

“We’ll find him in the morning, all right, mother,” reas¬ 
sured Phil. 

“He can follow the fence back, can’t he?” retorted the 
Dean. “Or, as far as that goes, old Snip will bring him 
home.” 

< “If he knows enough to figger it out, or to let Snip have 
his head,” said Curly. 

“At any rate,” the Dean maintained, “he’ll learn some¬ 
thin’ about the country, an’ he’ll learn somethin’ about fences, 
an’ mebby he’ll learn somethin’ about horses. An’ we’ll see 
whether he can use his own head or not. There’s nothin’ like 
givin’ a man a chance to find out things for himself some¬ 
times. Besides, think what a chance he’ll have for some of 
his experiments! I’ll bet a yearling steer that when we do 
see him again, he’ll be tickled to death at himself an’ won¬ 
derin’ how he had the nerve to do it.” 

“To do what?” asked Mrs. Baldwin. 

“I don’t know what,” chuckled the Dean; “but he’s bound 


95 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


to do some fool thing or other just to see if he can, and it’ll 
be somethin’ that nobody but him would ever, think of doin’, 
too.” 

But Honorable Patches did not get lost that day—that 
is, not too badly lost. There was a time, though—but that 
does not belong just here. 

Patches was very well pleased with the task assigned to 
him that morning. Eor the first time he found himself 
trusted alone with a horse, on a mission that would keep him 
the full day in the saddle, and would take him beyond sight 
of the ranch house. Very bravely he set out, equipped with 
his cowboy regalia—except the riata, which the Dean, fearing 
experiments, had, at the last moment, thoughtfully borrowed 
—and armed with a fencing tool and staples. He was armed, 
too, with a brand-new “six-gun” in a spick and span holster, 
on a shiny belt of bright cartridges. The Dean had insisted 
on this, alleging that the embryo cowboy might want it to kill 
a sick cow or something. 

Patches wondered if he would know a sick cow if he 
should meet one, or how he was to diagnose the case to ascer¬ 
tain if she were sick enough to kill. 

The first thing he did, when the Dean was safely out of 
sight, was to dismount and examine his saddle girth. Always 
your real king of the cattle range is careful for the founda¬ 
tion of his throne. But there was no awkwardness, now, when 
he again swung to his seat. The young man was in reality a 
natural athlete. His work had already taken the soreness and 
stiffness out of his unaccustomed muscles, and he seemed, 


96 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


as the Dean had said, a born horseman. And as he rode, he 
looked about over the surrounding country with an expression 
of independence, freedom and fearlessness very different from 
the manner of the troubled man who had faced Phil Acton 
that night on the Divide. It was as though the spirit of the 
land was already working its magic within this man, too. He 
patted the holster at his side, felt the handle of the gun, lov¬ 
ingly fingered the bright cartridges in his shiny belt, leaned 
sidewise to look admiringly down at his fringed, leather 
chaps and spur ornamented boot heels, and wished for his 
riata—not forgetting, meanwhile, to scan the fence for places 
that might need his attention. 

The guardian angel who cares for the “tenderfoot” was 
good to Patches that day, and favored him with many sagging 
wires and leaning or broken posts, so that he could not ride 
far. Being painstaking and conscientious in his work, he had 
made not more than four miles by the beginning of the after¬ 
noon. Then he found a break that would occupy him for 
two hours at least. With rueful eyes he surveyed the long 
stretch of dilapidated fence. It was time, he reflected, that 
the Dean sent someone to look after his property, and dis¬ 
mounting, he went to work, forgetting, in his interest in the 
fencing problem, to insure his horse’s near-by attendance. 

Now, the best of cow-horses are not above taking advan¬ 
tage of their opportunities. Perhaps Snip felt that fencerid¬ 
ing with a tenderfoot was a little beneath the dignity of his 
cattle-punching years. Perhaps he reasoned that this man 
who was always doing such strange things was purposely dis- 


97 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


missing him. Perhaps he was thinking of the long watering 
trough and the rich meadow grass at homa Or, perhaps 
again, the wise old Snip, feeling the responsibility of his 
part in training the Dean’s pupil, merely thought to give his 
inexperienced master a lesson. However it happened, Patches 
looked up from his work some time later to find himself alone. 
In consternation, he stood looking about, striving to catch a 
glimpse of the vanished Snip. Save a lone buzzard that 
wheeled in curious circles above his head there was no living 
thing in sight. 

As fast as his heavy, leather chaps and high-heeled, spur- 
omamented boots would permit, he ran to the top of a knoll 
a hundred yards or so away. The wider range of country that 
came thus within the circle of his vision vras as empty as it 
was silent. The buzzard wheeled nearer—the strange looking 
creature beneath it seemed so helpless that there might be in 
the situation something of vital interest to the tribe. Even 
buzzards must be about their business. 

There are few things more humiliating to professional 
riders of the range than to be left afoot; and while Patches 
was far too much a novice to have acquired the peculiar and 
traditional tastes and habits of the clan of which he had that 
morning felt himself a member, he was, in this, the equal of 
the best of them. He thought of hknself walking shame¬ 
faced into the presence of the Dean and reporting the loss of 
the horse. The animal might be recovered, he supposed, for 
he was still, Patches thought, inside the pasture which that 
fence enclosed. Still there was a chance that the runaway 


98 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


would escape through some break and never be found. In 
any case the vision of the grinning cowboys was not an attrac¬ 
tive one. But at least, thought the amateur cowboy, he could 
finish the work entrusted to him. He might lose a horse for 
the Dean, but the Dean’s fence should be repaired. So he set 
to work with a will, and, finishing that particular break, set 
out on foot to follow the fence around the field and so back 
to the lane that would lead him to the buildings and corrals 
of the home ranch. 

For an hour he trudged along, making hard work of it in 
his chaps, boots, and spurs, stopping now and then to drive 
a staple or brace a post. The country was growing wilder 
and more broken, with cedar timber on the ridges and here 
and there a pine. Occasionally he could catch a glimpse of 
the black, forbidding walls of Tailholt Mountain. But 
Patches did not know that it was Tailholt. He only thought 
that he knew in which direction the home ranch lay. It 
seemed to him that it was a long, long way to the corner of 
the field—it must be a big pasture, indeed. The afternoon 
was well on when he paused on the summit of another ridge 
to rest. It seemed to him that he had never in all his life 
been quite so warm. His legs ached. He was tired and 
thirsty and hungry. It was so still that the silence hurt, and 
that fence corner was nowhere in sight. He could not, now, 
reach home before dark, even should he turn back; which, he 
decided grimly, he would not do. He would ride that fence 
if he camped three nights on the journey. 

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, waving his hat, hallooing 


99 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


and yelling like a madman. Two horsemen were riding on 
the other side of the fence, along the slope of the next ridge, 
at the edge of the timber. In vain Patches strove to attract 
their attention. If they heard him, they gave no sign, and 
presently he saw them turn, ride in among the cedars, and 
disappear. In desperation he ran along the fence, down the 
hill, across the narrow little valley, and up the ridge over 
which the riders had gone. On the top of the ridge he 
stopped again, to spend the last of his breath in another 
series of wild shouts. But there was no answer. Nor could 
he be sure, even, which way the horsemen had gone. 

Dropping down in the shade of a cedar, exhausted by his 
strenuous exertion, and wet with honest perspiration, he 
struggled for breath and fanned his hot face with his hat. 
Perhaps he even used some of the cowboy words that he had 
heard Curly and Bob employ when Little Billy was not 
aroimd. After the noise of his frantic efforts, the silence was 
more oppressive than ever. The Cross-Triangle ranch house 
was, somewhere, endless miles away. 

Then a faint sound in the narrow valley below him caught 
his ear. Turning quickly, he looked back the way he had 
come. Was he dreaming, or was it all just a part of the 
magic of that wonderful land 2 A young woman was riding 
toward him—coming at an easy swinging lope—and, follow¬ 
ing, at the end of a riata, was the cheerfully wise and phil¬ 
osophic Snip. 

Patches’ first thought—when he had sufficiently recovered 
from his amazement to think at all—was that the woman rode 


100 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


as he had never seen a woman ride before. Dressed in the 
divided skirt of corduroy, the loose, soft, gray shirt, gaunt- 
leted gloves, mannish felt hat, and boots, usual to Arizona 
horsewomen, she seemed as much at ease in the saddle as any 
cowboy in the land; and, indeed, she was. 

As she came up the slope, the man in the shade of the 
cedar saw that she was young. Her lithe, beautifully de¬ 
veloped body yielded to the movement of the spirited horse 
she rode with the unspoiled grace of health and youth. Still 
nearer, and he saw her clear cheeks glowing with the exercise 
and excitement, her soft, brown hair under the wide brim of 
the gray sombrero, and her dark eyes, shining with the fun of 
her adventure. Then she saw him, and smiled; and Patches 
remembered what the Dean had said: “If there’s a man in 
Yavapai County who wouldn’t ride the hoofs off the best 
horse in his outfit to win a smile from Kitty Reid, he ought 
to be lynched.” 

As the man stood, hat in hand, she checked her horse, 
and, in a voice that matched the smile so full of fun and the 
clean joy of living greeted him. 

“You are Mr. Honorable Patches, are you not ?” 

Patches bowed. “Miss Reid, I believe ?” 

She frankly looked her surprise. “Why, how did you 
know me ?” 

“Your good friend, Mr. Baldwin, described you,” he 
smiled. 

She colored and laughed to hide her slight embarrassment. 
“The dear old Dean is prejudiced, I fear.” 


101 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Prejudiced he may be,” Patches admitted, “but his judg¬ 
ment is unquestionable. And,” he added gently, as her face 
grew grave and her chin lifted slightly, “his confidence in 
any man might be considered an endorsement, don’t you 
think?” 

“Indeed, yes,” she agreed heartily, her slight coldness 
vanishing instantly. “The Dean and Stella told me all about 
you this aftemoen, or I should not have ventured to intro¬ 
duce myself. I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Patches,” 
she finished with a mock formality that was delightful. 

“And I am delighted to meet you, Miss Reid, for so many 
reasons that I can’t begin to tell you of them,” he responded 
laughing. “And now, may I ask what good magic brings you 
like a fairy in the story book to the rescue of a poor stranger 
in the hour of his despair ? Where did you find my faithless 
Snip ? How did you know where to find me ? Where is the 
Cross-Triangle Ranch ? How many miles is it to the nearest 
water ? Is it possible for me to get home in time for supper ?” 

Looking down at him she laughed as only Kitty Reid 
could laugh. 

“You’re making fun of me,” he charged; “they all do. 
And I don’t blame them in the least; I have been laughing 
at myself all day.” 

“I’ll answer your last question first,” she returned. “Yes, 
you can easily reach the Cross-Triangle in time for supper, 
if you start at once. I will explain the magic as we ride.” 

“You are going to show me the way?” he cried eagerly, 
starting toward his horse. 


102 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“I really think it would be best,” she said demurely. 

“Now I know you are a good fairy, or a guardian angel, 
or something like that,” be returned, setting bis foot in the 
stirrup to mount. Then suddenly be paused, with, “Wait a 
minute, please. I nearly forgot.” And very carefully be 
examined the saddle girth to see that it was tight. 

“If you bad remembered to throw your bridle rein over 
Snip’s bead when you left him, you wouldn’t have needed 
a guardian angel this time,” she said. 

He looked at her blankly over the patient Snip’s back. 

“And so that was what made him go away? I knew I 
bad done some silly thing that I ought not. That’s the only 
thing about myself that I am always perfectly sure of,” he 
added as he mounted. “You see I can always depend upon 
myself to make a fool of myself. It was that bad place in 
the fence that did it.” He pulled up his horse suddenly as 
they were starting. “And that reminds me; there is one thing 
you positively must tell me before I can go a foot, even toward 
supper. How much farther is it to the corner of this field ?” 

She looked at him in pretty amazement. “To the corner 
of this field?” 

“Yes, I knew, of course, that if I followed the fence it 
was bound to lead me around the field and so back to where 
I started. That’s why I kept on; I thought I could finish the 
job and get home, even if Snip did compel me to ride the 
fence on foot.” 

“But don’t you know that this is a drift fence?” she 
asked, her eyes dancing with fun. 


103 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“That’s what the Dean called it,” he admitted. “But if 
it’s drifting anywhere, it’s going end on. Perhaps that’s 
why I couldn’t catch the corner.” 

“But there is no corner to a drift fence,” she cried. 

“No corner?” 

She shook her head as if not trusting herself to speak. 

“And it doesn’t go around anything—there is no field ?” 

Again she shook her head. 

“Just runs away out in the country somewhere and 
stops ?” 

She nodded. “It must be eighteen or twenty miles from 
here to the end.” 

“Well, of all the silly fences!” he exclaimed, looking away 
to the mountain peaks toward which he had been so labo¬ 
riously making his way. “Honestly, now, do you think that 
is any way for a respectable fence to act? And the Dean 
told me to he sure and get home before dark!” 

Then they laughed together—laughed until their horses 
must have wondered. 

As they rode on, she explained the purpose of the drift 
fence, and how it came to an end so many miles away and so 
far from water that the cattle do not usually find their way 
around it. 

“And now the magic!” he said. “You have made a most 
unreasonable, unconventional and altogether foolish fence 
appear reasonable, proper and perfectly sane. Please explain 
your coming with Snip to my relief.” 

“Which was also unreasonable, unconventional and alto¬ 
gether foolish ?” she questioned. 


104 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Which was altogether wonderful, unexpected and de¬ 
lightful,” he retorted. 

“It is all perfectly simple,” she explained. “Being 
rather—” She hesitated. “Well, rather sick of too much of 
nothing at all, you know, I went over to the Cross-Triangle 
right after dinner to visit a little with Stella—professionally.” 

“Professionally?” he asked. 

She nodded brightly. “Eor the good of my soul. Stella’s 
a famous soul doctor. The best ever except one, and she lives 
far away—away back east in Cleveland, Ohio.” 

“Yes, I know her, too,” he said gravely. 

And while they laughed at the absurdity of hi3 assertion, 
they did not know until long afterward how literally true 
it was. 

“Of course, I knew about you,” she continued. “Phil 
told me how you tried to ride that unbroken horse, the last 
time he was at our house. Phil thinks you are quite a won¬ 
derful man.” 

“No doubt,” said Patches mockingly. “I must have given 
a remarkable exhibition on that occasion.” He was wonder¬ 
ing just how much Phil had told her. 

“And so, you see,” she continued, “I couldn’t very well 
help being interested in the welfare of the stranger who had 
come among us. Besides, our traditional western hospitality 
demanded it; don’t you think ?” 

“Oh, certainly, certainly. You could really do nothing 
less than inquire about me,” he agreed politely. 

“And so, you see, Stella quite restored my soul health; 
or at least afforded me temporary relief.” 


105 



WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


He met the quizzing, teasing, laughing look in her eyes 
blankly. “You are making fun of me again,” he said humbly. 
“I know I ought to laugh at myself, but—” 

“Why, don’t you understand?” she cried. “Dr. Stella 
administered a generous dose of talk about the only new thing 
that has happened in this neighborhood for months and 
months and months.” 

“Meaning me ?” he askgd. 

“Well, are you not ?” she retorted. 

“I guess I am,” he smiled. “Well, and then what ?” 

“Why, then I came away, feeling much better, of course.” 

“Yes?” 

“I was feeling so much better I decided I would go home 
a roundabout way; perhaps to the top of Black Hill; perhaps 
up Horse Wash, where I might meet father, who would be on 
his way home from Fair Oaks where he went this morning.” 

“I see.” 

“Well, so I met Snip, who was on his way to the Cross- 
Triangle. I knew, of course, that old Snip would be your 
horse.” She smiled, as though to rob he~ Wurds of any im¬ 
plied criticism of his horsemanship. 

“Exactly,” he agreed understandingly. 

“And I was afraid that gcmething might have happened; 
though I couldn’t se^ how that could be, either, with Snip. 
And so I caught him—” 

He interrupted eagerly. “How ?” 

“Why, with my riata,” she returned, in a matter-of-fact 
tone, wondering at his question. 


106 


WHEN* A MAN’S A MAN 


“You caught my horse with your riata ?” he repeated 
slowly. 

“And pray how should I have caught him ?” she asked. 

“But—but, didn’t he run?” 

She laughed. “Of course he ran. They all do that once 
they get away from you. But Snip never could outrun my 
Midnight,” she retorted. 

He shook his head slowly, looking at her with frank 
admiration, as though, for the first time, he understood what 
a rare and wonderful creature she was. 

“And you can ride and rope like that?” he said doubt¬ 
fully. 

She flushed hotly, and there was a spark of fire in the 
brown eyes. “I suppose you are thinking that I am coarse 
and mannish and all that,” she said with spirit. “By your 
standards, Mr. Patches, I should have ridden back to the 
house, screaming, ladylike, for help.” 

“No, no,” he protested. “That’s not fair. I was think¬ 
ing how wonderful you are. Why, I would give—what 
wouldn’t I give to be able to do a thing like that!” 

There was no mistaking his earnestness, and Kitty was 
all sunshine again, pardoning him with a smile. 

“You see,” she explained, “I have always lived here, 
except my three years at school. Father taught me to use a 
riata, as he taught me to ride and shoot, because—well— 
because it’s all a part of this life, and very useful sometimes; 
just as it is useful to know about hotels and time-tables and 
taxicabs, in that other part of the world.” 


107 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“I understand/’ he said gently. “It was stupid of me to 
notice it. I beg your pardon for interrupting the story of 
my rescue. You had just roped Snip while he was doing his 
best to outrun Midnight—simple and easy as calling a taxi— 
‘Number Two Thousand Euclid Avenue, please’—and there 
you are.” 

“Oh, do you know Cleveland ?” she cried. 

Eor an instant he was confused. Then he said easily, 
“Everybody has heard of the famous Euclid Avenue. But 
how did you guess where Snip had left me ?” 

“Why, Stella had told me that you were riding the drift 
fence,” she answered, tactfully ignoring the evasion of her 
question. “I just followed the fence. So there was no magic 
about it at all, you see.” 

“I’m not so sure about the magic,” he returned slowly. 
“This is such a wonderful country—to me—that one can 
never be quite sure about anything. At least, I can’t. But 
perhaps that’s because I am such a new thing.” 

“And do you like it?” she asked, frankly curious about 
him. 

“Like being a new thing ?” he parried. “Yes and No.” 

“I mean do you like this wonderful country, as you 
call it?” 

“I admire the people who belong to it tremendously,” he 
returned. “I never met such men before—or such women,” 
he finished with a smile. 

“But, do you like it?” she persisted. “Do you like the 
life—your work—would you be satisfied to live here always ?” 


108 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Yes and No/’ lie answered again, hesitatingly. 

“Oh, well,” she said, with, he thought, a little bitterness 
and rebellion, “it doesn’t really matter to you whether you 
like it or not, because you are a man. If you are not satisfied 
with your environment, you can leave it—go away somewhere 
else—make yourself a part of some other life.” 

He shook his head, wondering a little at her earnestness. 
“That does not always follow. Can a man, just because he is 
a man, always have or do just what he likes ?” 

“If he’s strong enough,” she insisted. “But a woman 
must always do what other people like.” 

He was sure now that she was speaking rebelliously. 

She continued, “Can’t you, if you are not satisfied with 
this life here, go away ?” 

“Yes, but not necessarily to any life I might desire. Per¬ 
haps some sheriff wants me. Perhaps I am an escaped con¬ 
vict. Perhaps—oh, a thousand things.” 

She laughed aloud in spite of her serious mood. “What 
nonsense!” 

“But, why nonsense? What do you and your friends 
know of me ?” 

“We know that you are not that kind of a man,” she 
retorted warmly, “because”—she hesitated—“well, because 
you are not that sort of a man.” 

“Are you sure you don’t mean because I am not man 
enough to make myself wanted very badly, even by the 
sheriff ?” he asked, and Kitty could not mistake the bitterness 
in his voice. 


109 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Why, Mr. Patches!” she cried. “How could you think 
I meant such a thing ? Forgive me! I was only wondering 
foolishly what you, a man of education and culture, could 
find in this rough life that would appeal to you in any way. 
My curiosity is unpardonable, I suppose, but you must know 
that we are all wondering why you are here.” 

“I do not blame you,” he returned, with that self-mocking 
smile, as though he were laughing at himself. “I told you I 
could always be depended upon to make a fool of myself. 
You see I am doing it now. I don’t mind telling you this 
much—that I am here for the same reason that you went to 
visit Mrs. Baldwin this afternoon.” 

“For the good of your soul ?” she asked gently. 

“Exactly,” he returned gravely. “For the good of my 
soul.” 

“Well, then, Mr. Honorable Patches, here’s to your soul’s 
good health!” she cried brightly, checking her horse and 
holding out her hand. “We part here. You can see the 
Cross-Triangle buildings yonder. I go this way.” 

He looked his pleasure, as he clasped her hand in hearty 
understanding of the friendship offered. 

“Thank you, Miss Reid. I still maintain that the Dean’s 
judgment is unquestionable.” 

She was not at all displeased with his reply. 

“By the way,” she said, as if to prove her friendship. “I 
suppose you know what to expect from Uncle Will and the 
boys when they leam of your little adventure ?” 

“I do,” he answered, as if resigned to anything. 


110 


WHEN" A MAN’S A MAN 


“And do yon enjoy making fun for them ?” 

“I assure you, Miss Reid, I am very human.” 

“Well, then, why don’t you turn the laugh on them ?” 

“But how ?” 

“'They are expecting you to get into some sort of a scrape, 
don’t you think ?” 

“They are always expecting that. And,” he added, with 
that droll touch in his voice, “I must say I rarely disappoint 
them.” 

“I suspect,” she continued, thoughtfully, “that the Dean 
purposely did not explain that drift fence to you.” 

“He has established precedents that would justify my 
thinking so, I’ll admit.” 

“Well, then, why don’t you ride cheerfully home and 
report the progress of your work as though nothing had hap¬ 
pened ?” 

“You mean that you won’t tell ?” he cried. 

She nodded gaily. “I told them this afternoon that it 
wasn’t fair for you to have no one but Stella on your side.” 

“What a good Samaritan you are! You put me under 
an everlasting obligation to you.” 

“All right,” she laughed. “I’m glad you feel that way 
about it. I shall hold that debt against you until some day 
when I am in dreadful need, and then I shall demand pay¬ 
ment in full. Good-by!” 

And once again Kitty had spoken, in jest, words that 
held for them both, had they but known, great significance. 

Patches watched until she was out of sight Then he 


111 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


made his way happily to the house to receive, with a guilty 
conscience but with a light heart, congratulations and compli¬ 
ments upon his safe return. 

That evening Phil disappeared somewhere, in the twi¬ 
light. And a little later Jim Reid rode into the Cross-Tri¬ 
angle dooryard. 

The owner of the Pot-Hook-S was a big man, tall and 
heavy, outspoken and somewhat gruff, with a manner that 
to strangers often seemed near to overbearing. When Patches 
was introduced, the big cattleman looked him over suspi¬ 
ciously, spoke a short word in response to Patches’ common¬ 
place, and abruptly turned his back to converse with the 
better-known members of the household. 

For an hour, perhaps, they chatted about matters of gen¬ 
eral interest, as neighbors will; then the caller arose to go, 
and the Dean walked with him to his horse. When the two 
men were out of hearing of the people on the porch Reid 
asked in a low voice, “Noticed any stock that didn’t look 
right lately, Will ?” 

“No. You see, we haven’t been ridin’ scarcely any since 
the Fourth. Phil and the boys have been busy with the horses 
every day, an’ this new man don’t count, you know.” 

“Who is he, anyway ?” asked Reid bluntly. 

“I don’t know any more than that he says his name is 
Patches.” 

“Funny name,” grunted Jim. 

“Yes, but there’s a lot of funny names, Jim,” the Dean 
answered quietly. “I don’t know as Patches is any funnier 
than Skinner or Foote or Hogg, or a hundred other names, 


X 


112 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


when you come to think about it. We ain’t just never hap¬ 
pened to hear it before, that’s all.” 

“Where did you pick him up ?” 

“He just came along an’ wanted work. He’s green as 
they make ’em, but willin’, an’ he’s got good sense, too.” 

“I’d go slow ’bout takin’ strangers in,” said the big man 
bluntly. 

“Shucks!” retorted the Dean. “Some of the best men 
I ever had was strangers when I hired ’em. Bein’ a stranger 
ain’t nothin’ against a man. You and me would be strangers 
if we was to go many miles from Williamson Valley. Patches 
is a good man, I tell you. I’ll stand for him, all right. Why, 
he’s been out all day, alone, ridin’ the drift fence, just as good 
as any old-timer.” 

“The drift fence!” 

“Yes, it’s in pretty bad shape in places.” 

“Yes, an’ I ran onto a calf over in Horse Wash, this after¬ 
noon, not four hundred yards from the fence on the Tailholt 
side, fresh-branded with the Tailholt iron, an’ I’ll bet a thou¬ 
sand dollars it belongs to a Cross-Triangle cow.” 

“What makes you think it was mine?” asked the Dean 
calmly. 

“Because it looked mighty like some of your Hereford 
stock, an’ because I came on through the Horse Wash gate, 
an’ about a half mile on this side, I found one of your cows 
that had just lost her calf.” 

“They know we’re busy an’ ain’t judin’ much, I reckon,” 
mused the Dean. 

“If I was you, I’d put some hand that I knew to ridin’ 


X 


113 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

that drift fence,” returned Jim significantly, as he mounted 
his horse to go. 

“You’re plumb wrong, Jim,” returned the Dean earnestly. 
“Why, the man don’t know a Cross-Triangle from a Eive-Bar, 
or a Pot-Hook-S.” 

“It’s your business, Will; I just thought I’d tell you,” 
growled Reid. “Good-night!” 

“Good-night, Jim! I’m much obliged to you for ridin’ 
over.” 



114 







Kitty Keid told Patches that it was her 
soul sickness, from too much of nothing at all, 
that had sent her to visit Mrs. Baldwin that after¬ 
noon, she had spoken more in earnest than in jest. 
More than this, she had gone to the Cross-Triangle hoping to 
meet the stranger, of whom she had heard so much. Phil had 
told Kitty that she would like Patches. As Phil had put it, 
the man spoke her language; he could talk to her of people 
and books and those things of which the Williamson Valiev 
folk knew so little. 

But as she rode slowly homeward after leaving Patches, 
she found herself of two minds regarding the incident. She 
had enjoyed meeting the man; he had interested and amused 
her; had taken her out of herself, for she was not slow to 
recognize that the man really did belong to that world which 
was so far from the world of her childhood. And she was 
glad for the little adventure that, for one afternoon, at least, 
had broken the dull, wearying monotony of her daily life. 
But +he stranger, by the very fact of his belonging to that 


115 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


other world, had stimulated her desire for those things which 
in her home life and environment she so greatly missed. He 
had somehow seemed to magnify the almost unbearable com¬ 
monplace narrowness of her daily routine. He had made 
her even more restless, disturbed and dissatisfied. It had 
been to her as when one in some foreign country meets a 
citizen from one’s old home town. And for this Kitty was 
genuinely sorry. She did not wish to feel as she did about 
her home and the things that made the world of those she 
loved. She had tried honestly to still the unrest and to deny 
the longing. She had wished many times, since her return 
from the East, that she had never left her home for those three 
years in. school. And yet, those years had meant much to 
her; they had been wonderful years; but they seemed, some¬ 
how—now that they were past and she was home again—to 
have brought her only that unrest and longing. 

From the beginning of her years until that first great 
crisis in her life—her going away to school—this world into 
which she was bom had been to Kitty an all-sufficient world. 
The days of her childhood had been as carefree and joyous, 
almost, as the days of the young things of her father’s roam¬ 
ing herds. As her girlhood years advanced, under her mother’s 
wise companionship and careful teaching, she had grown into 
her share of the household duties and into a knowledge of 
woman’s part in the life to which she belonged, as naturally 
as her girlish form had put on the graces of young woman¬ 
hood. The things that filled the days of her father and 
mother, and the days of her neighbors and friends, had filled 
her days. The things that were all in all to those she loved 


116 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


had been all in all to her. And always, through those years, 
from her earliest childhood to her young womanhood, there 
was Phil, her playmate, schoolmate, protector, hero, slave. 
That Phil should be her boy sweetheart and young man lover 
had seemed as natural to Kitty as her relation to her parents. 
There had never been anyone else but Phil. There never 
could be—she was sure, in those days—anyone else. 

In Kitty’s heart that afternoon, as she rode, so indifferent 
to the life that called from every bush and tree and grassy 
hill and distant mountain, there was sweet regret, deep and 
sincere, for those years that were now, to her, so irrevocably 
gone. Kitty did not know how impossible it was for her to 
ever wholly escape the things that belonged to her childhood 
and youth. Those things of her girlhood, out of which her 
heart and soul had been fashioned, were as interwoven in the 
fabric of her being as the vitality, strength and purity of the 
clean, wholesome, outdoor life of those same years were 
wrought into the glowing health and vigor and beauty of her 
physical womanhood. 

And then had come those other years—the maturing, 
ripening years—when, from the simple, primitive and endur¬ 
ing elements of life, she had gone to live amid complex, culti¬ 
vated and largely fanciful standards and values. In that 
land of Kitty’s birth a man is measured by the measure of his 
manhood; a woman is ranked by the quality of her woman¬ 
hood. Strength and courage, sincerity, honesty, usefulness— 
these were the prime essentials of the man life that Kitty 
had, in those years of her girlhood, known; and these, too, in 
their feminine expressions, were the essentials of the woman 


117 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


life. But from these the young woman had gone to be edu¬ 
cated in a world wliere other things are of first importance. 
She had gone to be taught that these are not the essential ele¬ 
ments of manhood and womanhood. Or, at least, if she was 
not to be deliberately so taught, these things would be so 
ignored and neglected and overlooked in her training, that 
the effect on her character would be the same. In that new 
world she was to learn that men and women are not to be 
measured by the standards of manhood .and womanhood— 
that they were to be rated, not for-strength, but for culture; 
not for courage, but for intellectual cleverness; not for sin¬ 
cerity, but for manners; not for honesty, but for success; not 
for usefulness, but for social position, w T hich is most often 
determined by the degree of uselessness. It was as though 
the handler of gems were to attach no value whatever to the 
weight of the diamond itself, but to fix the worth of the stone 
wholly by the cutting and polish that the crystal might 
receiva 

At first, Kitty had been excited, bewildered and fascinated 
by the glittering, sparkling, ever-changing, many-faceted life. 
Then she had grown weary and homesick. And then, as the 
months had passed, and she had been drawn more and more 
by association and environment into the world of down-to- 
dateism she, too, began to regard the sparkle of the diamond 
as the determining factor in the value of the gem. And when 
the young woman had achieved this, they called her education 
finished, and sent her back to the land over which Granite 
Mountain, gray and grim and fortress-like, with its ranks of 
sentinel hills, keeps enduring and unchanging watch. 


118 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


During those first glad days of Kitty’s homecoming she 
had been eagerly interested in everything. The trivial bits 
of news about the small doings of her old friends had been 
delightful. The home life, with its simple routine and its 
sweet companionship, had been restful and satisfying. The 
very scenes of her girlhood had seemed to welcome her with 
a spirit of genuineness and steadfastness that had made her 
feel as one entering a safe home harbor after a long and adven¬ 
turous voyage to far-away and little-known lands. And Phil, 
in the virile strength of his manhood, in the simple bigness of 
his character, and in his enduring and unchanging love, had 
made her feel his likeness to the primitive land of his birth. 

But when tha glad excitement of those first days of her 
return were past, when the meetings with old friends were 
over and the tales of their doings exhausted, then Kitty began 
to realize what her education, as they called it, really meant. 
The lessons of those three years were not to be erased from 
her life as one would erase a mistake in a problem or a mis¬ 
spelled word. The tastes, habits of thought and standards of 
life, the acquirement of which constituted her culture, would 
not be denied. It was inevitable that there should be a clash 
between the claims of her home life and the claims of that life 
to which she now felt that she also belonged. 

However odious comparisons may be, they are many times 
inevitable. Loyally, Kitty tried to magnify the worth of 
those things that in her girlhood had been the supreme things 
in her life, but, try as she might, they were now, in com¬ 
parison with those things which her culture placed first, of 
trivial importance. The virile strength and glowing health 


110 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


of Phil’s unspoiled manhood—beautiful as the vigorous life 
of one of the wild horses from which he had his nickname— 
were overshadowed, now, by the young man’s inability to 
clothe his splendid body in that fashion which her culture 
demanded. His simple and primitive views of life—as 
natural as the instinct which governs all creatures in his 
God-cultivated world—were now unrefined, ignoble, inelegant. 
His fine nature and unembarrassed intelligence, which found 
in the wealth of realities amid which he lived abundant food 
for his intellectual life, and which enabled him to see clearly, 
observe closely and think with such clean-cut directness, 
beside the intellectuality of those schooled in the thoughts 
of others, appeared as ignorance and illiteracy. The very 
fineness and gentleness of his nature were now the distin¬ 
guishing marks of an uncouth and awkward rustic. 

With all her woman heart Kitty had fought against these 
comparisons—and continued to make them. Everything in 
her nature that belonged to Granite Mountain—that was, in 
short, the product of that land—answered to Phil’s call, as 
instinctively as the life of that land calls and answers its 
mating calls. Everything that she had acquired in those three 
years of a more advanced civilization denied and repulsed 
him. And now her meeting with Patches had stirred the 
warring forces to renewed activity, and in the distracting 
turmoil of her thoughts she found herself hating the land she 
loved, loathing the life that appealed to her with such insist¬ 
ent power, despising those whom she so dearly esteemed and 
honored, and denying the affection of which she was proud 
with a true woman’s tender pride. 


120 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Kitty was aroused from her absorption by the shrill 
boyish yells of her two younger brothers, who, catching sight 
of their sister from the top of one of the low hills that edge 
the meadow bottom lands, were charging recklessly down 
upon her. 

As the clatter and rumble of those eight flying hoofs 
drew nearer and nearer, Midnight, too, “came alive,” as the 
cowboys say, and tossed his head and pranced with eager 
impatience. 

“Where in the world have you been all the afternoon?” 
demanded Jimmy, with twelve-year-old authority, as his pony 
slid to a halt within a foot or two of his sister’s horse. 

And, “We wanted you to go with us to see our coyote 
traps,” reproved Conny—two years younger than his brother 
—as his pinto executed a like maneuver on the other side of 
the excited Midnight. 

“And where is Jack?” asked the young woman mis¬ 
chievously, as she smilingly welcomed the vigorous lads. 
“Couldn’t he help ?” 

Jack was the other member of the Reid trio of boys— 
a lusty four-year-old who felt himself equal to any venture 
that interested his brothers. 

Jimmy grinned. “Aw, mama coaxed him into the 
kitchen with something to eat while me and Conny sneaked 
down to the corral and saddled up and beat it.” 

Rig sister’s dark eyebrows arched in shocked inquiry, 
“Me and Conny?” 

“That is, Conny and I,” amended Jimmy, with good- 
natured tolerance of his sister’s whims. 


121 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“You see, Kitty,” put in Conny, “this here coyote trap- 
pin’ ain’t just fun. It’s business. Dad’s promised us three 
dollars for every scalp, an’ we’re aimin’ to make a stake. 
We didn’t git a blamed thing, to-day, though.” 

Sister’s painful and despairing expression was blissfully 
ignored as Jimmy stealthily flicked the long romal at the 
end of his bridle reins against Midnight’s flank. 

“Gee!” observed the tickled youngster, as Kitty gave all 
her attention to restraining the fretting and indignant horse, 
“ol’ Midnight is sure some festive, ain’t he?” 

“I’ll race you both to the big gate,” challenged Kitty. 

“For how much ?” demanded Jimmy quickly. 

“You got to give us fifty yards start,” declared Conny, 
leaning forward in his saddle and shortening his reins. 

“If I win, you boys go straight to bed to-night, when it’s 
time, without fussing,” said Kitty, “and I’ll give you to that 
oak bush yonder.” 

“Good enough! You’re on!” they shouted in chorus, and 
loped away. 

As they passed the handicap mark, another shrill, defiant 
yell came floating back to where Kitty sat reining in her 
impatient Midnight. At the signal, the two ponies leaped 
from a lope into a full run, while Kitty loosed the restraining 
rein and the black horse stretched away in pursuit. Spur¬ 
ring, shouting, entreating, the two lads urged their sturdy 
mounts toward the goal, and the pintos answered gamely 
with all that they had. Over knolls and washes, across 
arroyos and gullies they flew, sure-footed and eager, neck and 
neck, while behind them, drawing nearer and nearer, came 


122 


WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


the black, with body low, head outstretched and limbs that 
moved apparently with the timed regularity and driving 
power of a locomotive’s piston rod. As she passed them, Kitty 
shouted a merry “Come on!” which they answered with 
redoubled exertion and another yell of hearty boyish admira¬ 
tion for the victorious Midnight and his beautiful rider. 

“Doggone that black streak!” exclaimed Jimmy, his eyes 
dancing with fun as they pulled up at the corral gate. 

“He opens and shuts like a blamed ol’ jack rabbit,” com¬ 
mented Conny. “Seemed like we was just a-sittin’ still 
watchin’ you go by.” 

Kitty laughed, teasingly, and unconsciously slipped into 
the vernacular as she returned, “Did you kids think you were 
a-horseback ?” 

“You just wait, Miss,” retorted the grinning Jimmy, as 
he opened the big gate. “I’ll get a horse some day that’ll run 
circles around that ol’ black scound’el.” 

And then, as they dismounted at the door of the saddle 
room in the big barn, he added generously, “You scoot on 
up to the house, Kitty; I’ll take care of Midnight. It must 
be gettin’ near supper time, an’ I’m hungry enough to eat 
a raw dog.” 

At which alarming statement Kitty promptly scooted, 
stopping only long enough at the windmill pump for a cool, 
refreshing drink. 

Mrs. Reid, with sturdy little Jack helping, was already 
busy in the kitchen. She was a motherly woman, rather 
below Kitty’s height, and inclined somewhat to a comfortable 
stoutness. In her face was the gentle strength and patience 


123 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


of those whose years have been spent in home-making, without 
the hardness that is sometimes seen in the faces of those 
whose love is not great enough to soften their toil. One knew 
by the light in her eyes whenever she spoke of Kitty, or, 
indeed, whenever the girl’s name was mentioned, how large 
a place her only daughter held in her mother heart. 

While the two worked together at their homely task, the 
girl related in trivial detail the news of the neighborhood, 
and repeated faithfully the talk she had had with the mistress 
of the Cross-Triangle, answering all her mother’s questions, 
replying with careful interest to the older woman’s comments, 
relating all that was known or guessed, or observed regarding 
the stranger. But of her meeting with Patches, Kitty said 
little; only that she had met him as she was coming home. 
All during the evening meal, too, Patches was the principal 
topic of the conversation, though Mr. Reid, who had arrived 
home just in time for supper, said little. 

When supper was over, and the evening work finished, 
Kitty sat on the porch in the twilight, looking away across 
the wide valley meadows, toward the light that shone where 
the walnut trees about the Cross-Triangle ranch house made 
a darker mass in the gathering gloom. Her father had gone 
to call upon the Dean. The men were at the bunk-house, 
from which their voices came low and indistinct. Within 
the house the mother was coaxing little Jack to bed. Jimmy 
and Conny, at the farther end of the porch, were planning 
an extensive campaign against coyotes, and investing the 
unearned profits of their proposed industry. 

Kitty’s thoughts were many miles away. In that bright 


124 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


and stirring life—so far from the gloomy stillness of her 
home land, where she sat so alone—what gay pleasures held 
her friends ? Amid what brilliant scenes were they spending 
the evening, while she sat in her dark and silent world alone ? 
As her memory pictured the lights, the stirring movement, 
the music, the merry-voiced talk, the laughter, the gaiety, 
the excitement, the companionship of those whose lives were 
so full of interest, her heart rebelled at the dull emptiness of 
her days. As she watched the evening dusk deepen into the 
darkness of the night, and the outlines of the familiar land¬ 
scape fade and vanish in the thickening gloom, she felt the 
dreary monotony of the days and years that were to come, 
blotting out of her life all tone and color and forms of 
brightness and beauty. 

Then she saw, slowly emerging from the shadows of the 
meadow below, a darker shadow—mysterious, formless—that 
seemed, as it approached, to shape itself out of the very dark¬ 
ness through which it came, until, still dim and indistinct, 
a horseman was opening the meadow gate. Before the cow¬ 
boy answered Jimmy’s boyish “Hello!” Kitty knew that it 
was Phil. 

The young woman’s first impulse was to retreat to the 
safe seclusion of her own room. But, even as she arose to 
her feet, she knew how that would hurt the man who had 
always been so good to her; and so she went generously down 
the walk to meet him where he would dismount and leave his 
horse. 

“Did you see father?” she asked, thinking as she spoke 
how little there was for them to talk about. 


125 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Why, no. What’s the matter?” he returned quickly, 
pausing as if ready to ride again at her word. 

She laughed a little at his manner. “There is nothing 
the matter. He just went over to see the Dean, that’s all.” 

“I must have missed him crossing the meadow,” returned 
Phil. “He always goes around by the road.” 

Then, when he stood beside her, he added gently, “But 
there is something the matter, Kitty. What is it? Lone¬ 
some for the bright lights ?” 

That was always Phil’s way, she thought. He seemed 
always to know instinctively her every mood and wish. 

“Perhaps I was a little lonely,” she admitted. “I am 
glad that you came.” 

Then they were at the porch, and her ambitious brothers 
were telling Phil in detail their all-absorbing designs against 
the peace of the coyote tribe, and asking his advice. Mrs. 
Reid came to sit with them a-while, and again the talk 
followed around the narrow circle of their lives, until Kitty 
felt that she could bear no more. Then Mrs. Reid, more 
merciful than she knew, sent the boys to bed and retired to 
her own room. 

“And so you are tired of us all, and want to go back,” 
mused Phil, breaking one of the long, silent periods that in 
these days seemed so often to fall upon them when they 
found themselves alone. 

“That’s not quite fair, Phil,” she returned gently. “You 
know it’s not that.” 

“Well, then, tired of this”—his gesture indicated the 


126 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

sweep of the wide land—“tired of what we are and what 
we do ?” 

The girl stirred uneasily, but did not speak. 

“I don’t blame you,” he continued, as if thinking aloud. 
“It must seem mighty empty to those who don’t really 
know it.” 

“And don’t I know it?” challenged Kitty. “You seem 
to forget that I was born here—that I have lived here almost 
as many years as you.” 

“But just the same you don’t know,” returned Phil 
gently. “You see, dear, you knew it as a girl, the same as 
I did when I was a boy. But now—well, I know it as a man, 
and you as a woman know something that you think is very 
different.” 

Again that long silence lay a barrier between them. Then 
Kitty made the effort, hesitatingly. “Do you love the life 
so very, very much, Phil ?” 

He answered quickly. “Yes, but I could love any life 
that suited you.” 

“No—no,” she returned hurriedly, “that’s not—I mean 
—Phil, why are you so satisfied here ? There is so little for 
a man like you.” 

“So little!” His voice told her that her words had stung. 
“I told you that you did not know. Why, everything that a 
msLn uafc. a right to want is here. All that life can give any¬ 
where is here—I mean all of life that is worth having. But 
I suppose,” he finished lamely, “that it’s hard for you to 
see it that way—now. It’s like trying to make a city man 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


understand why a fellow is never lonesome just because 
.there’s no crowd around. I guess I love this life and am 
satisfied with it just as the wild horses over there at the foot 
of old Granite love it and are satisfied.” 

“But don’t you feel, sometimes, that if you had greater 
opportunities—don’t you sometimes wish that you could live 
where—” She paused at a loss for words. Phil somehow 
always made the things she craved seem so trivial. 

“I know what you mean,” he answered. “You mean, 
don’t the wild horses wish that they could live in a fine 
stable, and have a lot of men to feed and take care of them, 
and rig them out with fancy, gold-mounted harness, and let 
them prance down the streets for the crowds to see? No; 
horses have more sense than that. It takes a human to make 
that kind of a fool of himself. There’s only one thing in the 
world that would make me want to try it, and I guess you 
know what that is.” 

His last words robbed his answer of its sting, and she 
said gently, “You are bitter to-night, Phil. It is not like 
you.” 

He did not answer. 

“Did something go wrong to-day ?” she persisted. 

He turned suddenly to face her, and spoke with a passion 
unusual to him. “I saw you at the ranch this afternoon— 
as you were riding away. You did not even look toward 
the corral where you knew I was at work; and it seemed like 
all the heart went clear out of me. Oh, Kitty, girl, can’t 
we bring back the old days as they were before you went 
away ?” 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Hush, Phil,” she said, almost as she would have spoken 
to one of her boy brothers. 

But he went on recklessly. “No, I’m going to speak 
to-night. Ever since you came home you have refused to 
listen to me—you have put me off—made me keep still. I 
want you to tell me, Kitty, if I were like Honorable Patches, 
would it make any difference ?” 

“I do not know Mr. Patches,” she answered. 

“You met him to-day; and you know what I mean. 
Would it make any difference if I were like him ?” 

“Why, Phil, dear, how can I answer such a question? 
I do not know.” 

“Then it’s not because I belong here in this country 
instead of back East in some city that has made you change V 9 

“I have changed, I suppose, because I have become a 
woman, Phil, as you have become a man.” 

“Yes, I have become a man,” he returned, “but I have 
not changed, except tha*' the boy’s love has become a man’s 
love. Would it make any difference, Kitty, if you cared 
more for the life here—I mean if you were contented here— 
if these things that mean so much to us all, satisfied you ?” 

Again she answered, “I do not know, Phil. How can I 
know ?” 

“Will you try, Kitty—I mean try to like your old home 
as you used to like it ?” 

“Oh, Phil, I have tried. I do try,” she cried. “But I 
don’t think it’s the life that I like or do not like that makes 
the difference. I am sure, Phil, that if I could”—she 
hesitated, then went on bravely—“if I could give you the 


129 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

love you want, nothing else would matter. You said you 
could like any life that suited me. Don’t you think that I 
could he satisfied with any life that suited the man I loved ?” 

“Yes,” he said, “you could; and that’s the answer.” 

“What is the answer?” she asked. 

“Love, just love, Kitty—any place with love is a good 
place, and without love no life can satisfy. I am glad you 
said that. It was what I wanted you to say. I know now 
what I have to do. I am like Patches. I have found my 
job.” There was no bitterness in his voice now. 

The girl ;was deeply moved, but—“I don’t think I quite 
understand, Phil,” she said. 

“Why, don’t you see ?” he returned. “My job is to win 
your love—to make you love me—for myself—for just what 
I am—as a man—and not to try to be something or to live 
some way that I think you would like. It’s the man that 
you must love, and not what he does or where he lives. Isn’t 
that it?” 

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “I am sure that is so. It 
must be so, Phil.” 

He rose to his feet abruptly. “All right,” he said, almost 
roughly. “I’ll go now. But don’t make any mistake, Kitty. 
You’re mine, girl, mine, by laws that are higher than the 
things they taught you at school. And you are going to find 
it out. I am going to win you—just as the wild things out 
there win their mates. You are going to come to me, girl, 
because you are mine—because you are my mate.” 

And then, as she, too, arose, and they stood for a silent 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


moment facing each other, the woman felt his strength, and 
in her woman heart was glad—glad and proud, though she 
could not give all that he asked. 

As she watched him ride away into the night, and the 
soft mystery of the darkness out of which he had come seemed 
to take his shadowy form again to itself, she wondered— 
wondered with regret in the thought—would he, perhaps, go 
thus out of her life ? Would he ? 

When Phil turned his horse into the meadow pasture at 
home the big bay, from somewhere in the darkness, trumpeted 
his challenge. A low laugh came from near by, and in the 
light of the stars Phil saw a man standing by the pasture 
fence. As he went toward the shadowy figure the voice of 
Patches followed the laugh. 

“Pll bet that was Stranger.” 

“I know it was,” answered Phil. “What’s the matter 
that you’re not in bed ?” 

“Oh, I was just listening to the horses out there, and 
thinking,” returned Patches. 

“Thinking about your job?” asked Phil quietly. 

“Perhaps,” admitted the other. 

“Well, you have no reason to worry; you’ll ride him all 
right,” said the cowboy. 

“I wish I could be as sure,” the other returned doubt¬ 
fully. 

And they both knew that they were using the big bay 
horse as a symbol. 

“And I wish I was as sure of making good at my job, as 


131 



WHEX A MAX’S A MAX 


I am that you will win out with yours,” returned Phil. 

Patches’ voice was very kind as he said reflectively, “So, 
you have a job, too. I am glad for that.” 

“Glad?” 

“Yes,” the tall man placed a hand on the other’s shoulder 
as they turned to walk toward the house, “because, Phil, I 
have come to the conclusion that this old world is a mighty 
empty place for the man who has nothing to do.” 

“But there seems to he a lot of fellows who manage to 
keep fairly busy doing nothing, just the same, don’t you 
think?” replied Phil with a low laugh. 

“I said ‘man’” retorted Patches, with emphasis. 

“That’s right,” agreed Phil. “A man just naturally 
requires a man’s job.” 

“And,” mused Patches, “when it’s all said and done, I 
suppose there’s only one genuine, simon-pure, full-sized man’s 
job in the world.” 

“And I reckon that’s right, too,” returned the cowboy. 



132 



2 D! 



CHAPTER VIII. 

CONCERNING BRANDS. 


FEW days after Jim Reid’s evening visit to the 
Dean two cowboys from the Diamond-and-a-Half 
outfit, on their way to Cherry Creek, stopped at 
the ranch for dinner. 

The well-known, open-handed Baldwin hospitality led 
many a passing rider thus aside from the main valley 
road and through the long meadow lane to the Cross- 
Triangle table. Always there was good food for man and 
horse, with a bed for those who came late in the day; and 
always there was a hearty welcome and talk under the walnut 
trees with the Dean. And in all that broad land there was 
scarce a cowboy who, when riding the range, would not look 
out for the Dean’s cattle with almost the same interest and 
care that he gave to the animals bearing the brand of his own 
employer. 

So it was that these riders from the Ton to Flats country 
told the Dean that in looking over the Cross-Triangle cattle 
watering at Toohey they had seen several cases of screw- 
worms. 


1'33 








WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“We doped a couple of the worst, and branded a calf for 
you,” said “Shorty” Myers. 

And his companion, Bert Wilson, added, as though 
apologizing, “We couldn’t stop any longer because we got to 
make it over to Wheeler’s before mornin’.” 

“Much obliged, boys,” returned the Dean. Then, with 
his ever-ready jest, “Sure you put the right brand on that 
calf?” 

“We-ali ain’t ridin’ for no Tailholt Mountain outfit this 
season,” retorted Bert dryly, as they all laughed at the Dean’s 
question. 

And at the cowboy’s words Patches, wondering, saw the 
laughing faces change and looks of grim significance flash 
from man to man. 

“Anybody seen anything over your way lately?” asked 
the Dean quietly. 

In the moment of silence that followed the visitors looked 
questioningly from the face of Patches to the Dean and then 
to Phil. Phil smiled his endorsement of the stranger, and 
“Shorty” said, “We found a couple of fresh-branded calves 
what didn’t seem to have no mothers last week, and Bud 
Stillwell says some things look kind o’ funny over in the 
D.l neighborhood.” 

Another significant silence followed. To Patches, it 
3eemed as the brooding hush that often precedes a storm. 
ITe had not missed those questioning looks of the visitors, 
and had seen Phil’s smiling endorsement, but he could not, 
of course, understand. He could only wonder and wait, for 
he felt intuitively that he must not speak. It was as though 

134 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


these strong men who had received him so generously into 
their lives put him, now, outside their circle, while they con¬ 
sidered business of grave moment to themselves. 

“Well, boys,” said the Dean, as if to dismiss the subject, 
“I’ve been in this cow business a good many years, now, ar’ 
I’ve seen all kinds of men come an’ go, but I ain’t never 
seen the man yet that could get ahead very far without payin’ 
for what he got. Some time, one way or another, whether 
he’s so minded or not, a man’s just naturally got to pay.” 

“That law is not peculiar to the cattle business, either, 
is it, Mr. Baldwin ?” The words came from Patches, and as 
they saw his face, it was their turn to wonder. 

The Dean looked straight into the dark eyes that were 
so filled with painful memories, and wistful desire. “Sir ?” 

“I mean,” said Patches, embarrassed, as though he had 
spoken involuntarily, “that what you say applies to those 
who live idly—doing no useful work whatever—as well as to 
those who are dishonest in business of any kind, or who 
deliberately steal outright. Don’t you think so ?” 

The Dean—his eyes still fixed on the face of the new 
man—answered slowly, “I reckon that’s so, Patches. When 
you come to think about it, it must be so. One way or another 
every man that takes what he ain’t earned has to pay for it.” 

“Who is he?” asked the visitors of Curly and Bob, as 
they went for their horses, when the meal was over. 

The Cross-Triangle men shook their heads. 

“Just blew in one day, and the Dean hired him,” said 
Bob. 

“But he’s the handiest man with his fists that’s ever been 


135 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


in this neck of the woods. If you don’t believe it, just you 
start something,” added Curly with enthusiasm. 

“Found it out, did you ?” laughed Bert. 

“In something less than a minute,” admitted Curly. 

“Funny name!” mused “Shorty.” 

Bob grinned. “That’s what Curly thought—at first.” 

“And then he took another think, huh f” 

“Yep,” agreed Curly, “he sure carries the proper creden¬ 
tials to make any name that he wants to wear good enough 
for me.” 

The visitors mounted their horses, and sat looking ap¬ 
praisingly at the tall figure of Honorable Patches, as that 
gentleman passed them at a little distance, on his way to the 
barn. 

“Mebby you’re right,” admitted “Shorty,” “but he sure 
talks like a schoolmarm, don’t he ?” 

“He sure ain’t no puncher,” commented Bert. 

“No, but I’m gamblin’ that he’s goin’ to be,” retorted 
Curly, ignoring the reference to Patches’ culture. 

“Me, too,” agreed Bob. 

“Well, we’ll all try him out this fall rodeo”; and “better 
noc let him drift far from the home ranch for a while,” 
laughed the visitors. “So long!” and they were away. 

Before breakfast the next morning Phil said to Patches, 
“Catch up Snip, and give him a feed of grain. You’ll ride 
with me to-day.” 

At Patches’ look of surprise he explained laughingly, 
“I’m going to give my school a little vacation, and Uncle 
Will thinks it’s time you were out of the kindergarten.” 


136 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Later, as they were crossing the big pasture toward the 
country that lies to the south, the foreman volunteered the 
further information that for the next few weeks they would 
ride the range. 

“May I ask what for ?” said Patches, encouraged by the 
cowboy’s manner. 

It was one of the man’s peculiarities that he rarely 
entered into the talk of his new friends when their work 
was the topic of conversation. And he never asked questions 
except when alone with Phil or the Dean, and then only 
when led on by them. It was not that he sought to hide his 
ignorance, for he made no pretenses whatever, but his 
reticence seemed, rather, the result of a curious feeling of 
shame that he had so little in common with these men whose 
lives were so filled with useful labor. And this, if he had 
known, was one of the things that made them like him. Men 
who live in such close daily touch with the primitive realities 
of life, and who thereby acquire a simple directness, with a 
certain native modesty, have no place in their hearts for— 
to use their own picturesque vernacular—a “four-flusher.” 

Phil tactfully did not even smile at the question, but 
answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “To look out for screw- 
worms, brand a calf here and there, keep the water holes open, 
and look out for the stock generally.” 

“And you mean,” questioned Patches doubtfully, “that / 
am to ride with you,?” 

“Sure. You see, Uncle Will thinks you are too good a 
man to waste on the odd jobs around the place, and so I’m 
going to get you in shape for the rodeo this fall.” 


137 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The effect of his words was peculiar. A deep red colored 
Patches’ face, and his eyes shone with a glad light, as he 
faced his companion. “And yon—what do you think about 
it, Phil ?” he demanded. 

The cowboy laughed at the man’s eagerness. “Me ? Oh, 
I think just as I have thought all the time—ever since you 
asked for a job that day in the corral.” 

Patches drew a long breath, and, sitting very straight in 
the saddle, looked away toward Granite Mountain; while 
Phil, watching him curiously, felt something like kindly pity 
in his heart for this man who seemed to hunger so for a 
man’s work, and a place among men. 

Just outside the Deep Wash gate of the big pasture, a 
few cattle were grazing in the open flat. As the men rode 
toward them, Phil took down his riata while Patches watched 
him questioningly. 

“We may as well begin right here,” said the cowboy. 
“Do you see anything peculiar about anything in that 
bunch ?” 

Patches studied the cattle in vain. 

“What about that calf yonder ?” suggested Phil, leisurely 
opening the loop of his rope. “I mean that six-months 
youngster with the white face.” 

Still Patches hesitated. 

Phil helped him again. “Look at his ears.” 

“They’re not marked,” exclaimed Patches. 

“'And what should they be marked ?” asked the teacher. 

“Under-bit right and a split left, if he belongs to the 


138 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Cross-Triangle,” returned tlie pupil proudly, and in the same 
breath he exclaimed, “He is not branded either.” 

Phil smiled approval, “That's right, and we’ll just fix 
him now, before somebody else beats us to him.” He moved 
his horse slowly toward the cattle as he spoke. 

“But,” exclaimed Patches, “how do you know that he 
belongs to the Cross-Triangle?” 

“He doesn’t,” returned Phil, laughing. “He belongs to 
me.” 

“But I don’t see how you can tell.” 

“I know because I know the stock,” Phil explained, “and 
because I happen to remember that particular calf, in the 
rodeo last spring. He got away from us, with his mother, 
in the cedars and brush over near the head of Mint Wash. 
That’s one of the things that you have to learn in this busi¬ 
ness, you see. But, to be sure we’re right, you watch him 
a minute, and you’ll see him go to a Five-Bar cow. The 
Five-Bar is my iron, you know—I have a few head running 
with Uncle Will’s.” 

Even as he spoke, the calf, frightened at their closer 
approach, ran to a cow that was branded as Phil had said, 
and the cow, with unmistakable maternal interest in her off¬ 
spring, proved the ownership of the calf. 

“You see?” said Phil. “We’ll get that fellow now, 
because before the next rodeo he’ll be big enough to leave his 
mother, and then, if he isn’t branded, he’ll be a maverick, 
and will belong to anybody that puts an iron on him.” 

“But couldn’t someone brand him now, with their brand, 


139 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


and drive him away from his mother ?” asked Patches. 

“Such things have been known to happen, and that not a 
thousand miles from here, either,” returned Phil dryly. 
“But, really, you know, Mr. Patches, it isn’t done among 
the best people.” 

Patches laughed aloud at his companion’s attempt at a 
simpering affectation. Then he watched with admiration 
while the cowboy sent his horse after the calf and, too quickly 
for an inexperienced eye to see just how it was done, the deft 
riata stretched the animal by the heels. With a short “hog¬ 
ging” rope, which he carried looped through a hole cut in 
the edge of his chaps near the belt, Phil tied the feet of his 
victim, before the animal had recovered from the shock of 
the fall; and then, with Patches helping, proceeded to build 
a small fire of dry grass and leaves and sticks from a near-by 
bush. From his saddle, Phil took a si^all iron rod, flattened 
at one end, and only long enough tpjpermit its being held in 
the gloved hand when the flattened etid was hot—a running 
iron, he called it, and explained to his interested pupil, as 
he thrust it into the fire, how some of the boys used an iron 
ring for range branding. 

“And is there no way to change or erase a brand ?” asked 
Patches, while the iron was heating. 

“Sure there is,” replied Phil. And sitting on his heels, 
cowboy fashion, he marked on the ground with a stick. 

“Look! This is the Cross-Triangle brand: ^ ; and 
this: , the Four-Bar-M, happens to be Nick Cambert’s 

iron, over at Tailholt Mountain. Now, can’t you see how, 
supposing I were Nick, and this calf were branded with the 


140 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Cross-Triangle, I could work the iron over into my brand ?” 

Patches nodded. “But i£ there no way to detect such a 
fraud?” 

“It’s a mighty hard thing to prove that an iron has been 
worked over,” Phil answered slowly. “About the only sure 
way is to catch the thief in the act.” 

“But there are the earmarks,” said Patches, a few 
I moments later, when Phil had released the branded and 
! marked calf—“the earmarks and the brand wouldn’t agree.” 

“They would if I were Nick,” said the cowboy. Then he 
I added quickly, as if regretting his remark, “Our earmark 
i is an under-bit right and a split left, you said. Well, the 
Four-Bar-M earmark is a crop and an under-bit right and a 
swallow-fork left.” With the point of his iron now he again 
| marked in the dirt. “Here’s your Cross-Triangle: ; 

and here’s your Four-Bar-M: •” 

“And if a calf branded with a Tailholt iron were to be 
found following a Cross-Triangle cow, then what?” came 
Patches’ very natural question. 

“Then,” returned the foreman of the Cross-Triangle 
grimly, “there would be a mighty good chance for trouble.” 

“But it seems to me,” said Patches, as they rode on, “that 
it would be easily possible for a man to brand another man’s 
calf by mistake.” 

“A man always makes a mistake when he puts his iron 
on another man’s property,” returned the cowboy shortly. 

“But might it not be done innocently, just the same?” 
persisted Patches. 

“Yes, it might,” admitted Phil. 


141 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Well, then, what would you do if you found a calf, that 
you knew belonged to the Dean, branded with some other 
man’s brand ? I mean, how would you proceed ?” 

“Oh, I see what you are driving at,” said Phil in quite 
a different tone. “If you ever run on to a case, the first 
thing for you to do is to be dead sure that the misbranded 
calf belongs to one of our cows. Then, if you are right, and 
it’s not too far, drive the cow and calf into the nearest corral 
and report it. If you can’t get them to a corral without too 
much trouble, just put the Cross-Triangle on the calf’s ribs. 
When he shows up in the next rodeo, with the right brand 
on his ribs, and some other brand where the right brand 
ought to be—you’ll take pains to remember his natural mark¬ 
ings, of course—you will expl^n the circumstances, and the 
owner of the iron that was put on him by mistake will be 
asked to vent his brand. A brand is vented by putting the 
same brand on the animal’s shoulder. Look! There’s one 
now.” He pointed to an animal a short distance away. 
“See, that steer is branded Diamond-and-a-Half on hip and 
shoulder, and Cross-Triangle on his ribs. Well, when he 
was a yearling he belonged to the Diamond-and-a-Half outfit. 
We picked him up in the rodeo, away over toward Mud 
Tanks. He was running with our stock, and Stillwell didn’t 
want to go to the trouble of taking him home—about thirty 
miles it is—so he sold him to Uncle Will, and vented his 
brand, as you see.” 

“I see,” said Patches, “but that’s different from finding a 
calf misbranded.” 


142 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“Sure. There was no question of ownership there/ 
agreed Phil. 

“But in the case of the calf,” the cowboy’s pupil persisted, 
“if it had left its mother when the man owning the iron 
was asked to vent it, there would be no way of proving the 
real ownership.” 

“Nothing but the word of the man who found the calf 
with its mother, and, perhaps, the knowledge of the men who 
knew the stock.” 

“What I am getting at,” smiled Patches, “is this: it 
would come down at last to a question of men, wouldn't it ?” 

“That’s where most things come to in the end in this 
country, Patches. But you’re right. With owners like Uncle 
Will, and Jim Reid, and Stillwell, and dozens of others : 
and with cowboys like Curly and Bob and Bert and ‘Shorty/ 
there would be no trouble at all about the matter.” 

“But with others,” suggested Patches. 

“Well,” said Phil slowly, “there are men in this country, 
who, if they refused to vent a brand under such circum¬ 
stances, would be seeing trouble, and mighty quick, too.” 

“There’s another thing that we’ve got to watch out for, 
just now,” Phil continued, a few minutes later, “and that is, 
‘sleepers’. We’ll suppose,” he explained, “that I want to 
build up my bunch of Five-Bars, and that I am not too 
particular about how I do it. Well, I run on to an unbranded 
Pot-Hook-S calf that looks good to me, but I don’t dare put 
my iron on him because he’s too young to leave his mother. 
If I let him go until he is older, some of Jim Reid’s riders 


143 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


will brand him, and, you see, I never could work over the 
Pot-Hook-S iron into my Five-Bar. So I earmark the calf 
with the owner’s marks, and don’t brand him at all. Then 
he’s a sleeper. If the Pot-Hook-S boys see him, they’ll 
notice that he’s earmarked all right, and very likely they’ll 
take it for granted that he’s branded, or, perhaps let him go 
anyway. Before the next rodeo I run on to my sleeper 
again, and he’s big enough now to take away from the cow, 
so all I have to do is to change the earmarks and brand him 
with my iron. Of course, I wouldn’t get all my sleepers, 
but—the percentage would be in my favor. If too many 
sleepers show up in the rodeo, though, folks would get mighty 
suspicious that someone was too handy with his knife. We 
got a lot of sleepers in the last rodeo,” he concluded quietly. 

And Patches, remembering what Little Billy had said 
about Nick Cambert and Yavapai Joe, and with the talk of 
the visiting cowboys still fresh in his mind, realized that he 
was making progress in his education. 

Biding leisurely, and turning frequently aside for a 
nearer view the cattle they sighted here and there, they 
reached Toohey a little before noon. Here, in a rocky hollow 
of the hills, a small stream wells from under the granite 
walls, only to lose itself a few hundred yards away in the 
sands and gravel of the wash. But, short as its run in the 
daylight is, the water never fails. And many cattle come 
from the open range that lies on every side, to drink, and, 
in summer time, to spend the heat of the day, standing in 
the cool, wet sands or lying in the shade of the giant syca¬ 
mores that line the bank opposite the bluff. There are corrals 


144 


WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


near-by and a rude cook-shack under the wide-spreading 
branches of an old walnut tree; and the ground of the flat 
open space, a little back from the water, is beaten bare and 
hard by the thousands upon thousands of cattle that have at 
many a past rodeo-time been gathered there. 

The two men found, as the Hiamond-and-a-Half riders 
had said, several animals suffering from those pests of the 
Arizona ranges, the screw worms. As Phil explained to 
Patches while they watered their horses, the screwworm is 
the larva of a blowfly bred in sores on living animals. The 
unhealed wounds of the branding iron made the calves by 
far the most numerous among the sufferers, and were the 
afllicted animals not treated the loss during the season would 
amount to considerable. 

“Look here, Patches,” said the cowboy, as his practiced 
eyes noted the number needing attention. “I'll tell you 
what we'll do. We'll just run this hospital bunch into the 
corral, and you can limber up that riata of yours.” 

And so Patches learned not only the unpleasant work of ‘ 
cleaning the worm-infested sores with chloroform, but 
received his first lesson in the use of the cowboy's indis¬ 
pensable tool, the riata. 

“What next?” asked Patches, as the last calf escaped 
through the gate which he had just opened, and ran to find 
the waiting and anxious mother. 

Phil looked at his companion, and laughed. Honorable 
Patches showed the effect of his strenuous and bungling 
efforts to learn the rudiments of the apparently simple trick 
of roping a calf. His face was streaked with sweat and dust, 


145 





WHEN- A MAN’S A MAN 


his hair disheveled, and his clothing soiled and stained. Bui 
his eyes were bright, and his bearing eager and ready. 

“What’s the matter ?” he demanded, grinning happily at 
his teacher. “What fool thing have I done now V’ 

“You’re doing fine,” Phil returned. “I was only think¬ 
ing that you don’t look much like the man I met up on the 
Divide that evening.” 

“I don’t feel much like him, either, as far as that goes,” 
returned Patches. 

Phil glanced up at the sun. “What do you say to dinner ? 
It must be about that time.” 

“Dinner ?” ; 

“Sure. I brought some jerky—there on my saddle—and 
some coffee. There ought to be an old pot in the shack 
yonder. Some of the boys don’t bother, but I never like to 
miss a feed unless it’s necessary.” He did not explain that 
the dinner was really a thoughtful concession to his com¬ 
panion. 

“Ugh!” ejaculated Patches, with a shrug of disgust, the 
work they had been doing still fresh in his mind. “I couldn’t 
eat a bite.” 

“You think that now,” retorted Phil, “but you just go 
down to the creek, drink all you can hold, wash up, and see 
how quick you’ll change your mind when you smell the 
coffee.” 

And thus Patches received yet another lesson—a lesson 
in the art of forgetting promptly the most disagreeable fea¬ 
tures of his work*—an art very necessary to those who aspire 
to master real work of any sort whatever. 


146 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


When they had finished their simple meal, and lay 
stretched full length beneath the overhanging limbs of the 
age-old tree that had witnessed so many stirring scenes, and 
listened to so many camp-fire tales of ranch and range, they 
talked of things other than their work. In low tones, as men 
who feel a mystic and not-to-be-explained bond of fellowship 
—with half-closed eyes looking out into the untamed world 
that lay before them—they spoke of life, of its mystery and 
meaning. And Phil, usually so silent when any conversation 
touched himself, and so timid always in expressing his own 
self thoughts, was strangely moved to permit this man to 
look upon the carefully hidden and deeper things of his life. 
But upon his cherished dream—upon his great ambition— 
he kept the door fast closed. The time for that revelation of 
himself was not yet. 

“By the way, Phil,” said Patches, when at last his com¬ 
panion signified that it was time for them to go. “Where 
were you educated ? I don’t think that I have heard you 
say.” 

“I have no education,” returned the young man, with a 
laugh that, to Patches, sounded a bitter note. “I’m just a 
common cow-puncher, that’s all.” 

“I beg your pardon,” returned the other, “but I thought 
from the books you mentioned—” 

“Oh, the books! Why, you see, some four years ago a 
real, honest-to-goodness book man came out to this country 
for his health, and brought his disease along with him.” 

“His disease?” questioned Patches. 

Phil smiled. “His books, I mean. They killed him, and 

147 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


I fell heir to his trouble. He was a good fellow, all right— 
we all liked him—might have been a man if he hadn’t been 
so much of a scholar. I was curious, at first, just to see 
what it was that had got such a grip on him; and then I got 
interested myself. About that time, too, there was a reason 
why I thought it might be a good thing for me; so I sent 
for more, and have made a fairly good job of it in the past 
three years. I don’t think that there’s any danger, though, 
of the habit getting the grip on me that it had on him,” he 
reflected with a whimsical grin. “It was our book friend 
who first called Uncle Will the Dean.” 

“The title certainly fits him well,” remarked Patches, 
“I don’t wonder that it stuck. I suppose you received yours 
for your riding ?” 

“Mine?” 

“ ‘Wild Horse Phil,’ I mean,” smiled the other. 

Phil laughed. “Haven’t you heard that yarn yet? I 
reckon I may as well tell you. No, wait!” he exclaimed 
eagerly. “We have lots of time. We’ll ride south a little 
way and perhaps I can show you.” 

As they rode away up the creek, Patches wondered much 
at his companion’s words and at his manner, but the cowboy 
shook his head at every question, answering, simply, “Wait.” 

Soon they had left the creek bed—passing through a rock 
gateway at the beginning of the little stream—and were 
riding up a long, gently sloping hollow between two low but 
rugged ridges. The crest of the rocky wall on their left 
was somewhat higher than the ridge on their right, but, as 


148 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


the floor of the long, narrow hollow ascended, the sides of 
the little valley became correspondingly lower. Patches 
noticed that his companion was now keenly alert and watch¬ 
ful. He sat his horse easily, but there was a certain air of 
readiness in his poise, as though he anticipated sudden action, 
while his eyes searched the mountain sides with eager 
1 expectancy. 

They had nearly reached the upper end of the long slope 
| when Phil abruptly reined his horse to the left and rode 
straight up that rugged, rock-strewn mountain wall. To 
Patches it seemed impossible that a horse could climb such 
a place; but he said nothing, and wisely gave Snip his head. 
They were nearly at the top—so near, in fact, that Phil 
| could see over the narrow crest—when the cowboy suddenly 
I checked his horse and slipped from the saddle. With a 
gesture he bade his companion follow 1 his: example, and in a 
moment Patches stood beside hirm ^ Leaving their horses, 
they crept the few remaining feet to the summit. Crouching 
low, then lying prone, they worked their way to the top of 
a huge rounded rock, from which they could look over and 
down upon the country that lies beyond. 

Patches uttered a low exclamation, but Phil’s instant 
grip on his arm checked further speech. 

From where they lay, they looked down upon a great 
mountain basin of gently rolling, native grass land. From 
the foot of that rocky ridge, the beautiful pasture stretches 
away, several miles, to the bold, gray cliffs and mighty, 
towering battlements of Granite Mountain. On the south, 


149 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


a range of dark hills, and to the north, a series of sharp 
peaks, form the natural boundaries. 

“Do you see them ?” whispered Phil. 

Patches looked at him inquiringly. The stranger’s 
interest in that wonderful scene had led him to overlook 
that which held his companion’s attention. 

“There,” whispered Phil impatiently, “on the side of that 
hill there—they’re not more than four hundred yards away, 
and they’re working toward us.” 

“Do you mean those horses ?” whispered Patches, amazed 
at his companion’s manner. 

Phil nodded. 

“Do they belong to the Cross-Triangle ?” asked Patches, 
still mystified. 

“The Cross-Triangle!” Phil chuckled. Then, with a note 
of genuine reverence in his voice, he added softly, “They 
belong to God, Mr. Honorable Patches.” 

Then Patches understood. “Wild horses!” he ejaculated 
softly. 

There are few men, I think, who can look without 
admiration upon a beautifully formed, noble spirited horse. 
The glorious pride and strength and courage of these most 
kingly of God’s creatures—even when they are in harness 
and subject to their often inferior masters—compel respect 
and a degree of appreciation. But seen as they roam free 
in those pastures that, since the creation, have never been 
marred by plow or fence—pastures that are theirs by divine 
right, and the sunny slopes and shady groves and rocky nooks 
of which constitute their kingdom—where, in their lordly 


150 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


strength, they are subject only to the dictates of their own 
being, and, unmutilated by human cruelty, rule by the power 
and authority of Nature’s laws—they stir the blood of the 
coldest heart to a quicker flow, and thrill the mind of the 
dullest with admiring awe. 

a There’s twenty-eight in that bunch,” whispered Phil. 
“Do you see that big black stallion on guard—the one that 
throws up his head every minute or two for a look around ?” 

Patches nodded. There was no mistaking the watchful 
leader of the band. 

“He’s the chap that gave me my title, as you call it,” 
chuckled Phil. “Come on, now, and we’ll see them in action; 
then I’ll tell you about it.” 

He slipped from the rock and led the way back to the 
saddle horses. 

Riding along the ridge, just under the crest, they soon 
reached the point where the chain of low peaks merges into 
the hills that form the southern boundary of the basin, and 
so came suddenly into full view of the wild horses that were 
feeding on the slopes a little below. 

As the two horsemen appeared, the leader of the band 
threw up his head with a warning call to his fellows. 

Phil reined in his horse and motioned for Patches to do 
the same. 

For several minutes, the black stallion held his place, 
as motionless as the very rocks of the mountain side, gazing 
straight at the mounted men as though challenging their 
right to cross the boundary of his kingdom, while his retainers 
stood as still, waiting his leadership. With his long, black 


151 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


mane and tail rippling and waving in the breeze that swept 
down from Blair Pass and across the Basin, with his raven- 
black coat glistening in the sunlight with the sheen of richest 
satin where the swelling muscles curved and rounded from 
shadow to high light, and with his poise of perfect strength 
and freedom, he looked, as indeed he was, a prince of his 
kind—a lord of the untamed life that homes in those Grod- 
cultivated fields. 

Patches glanced at his companion, as if to speak, but 
struck by the expression on the cowboy’s face, remained 
silent. Phil was leaning a little forward in his saddle, his 
body as perfect in its poise of alert and graceful strength as 
the body of the wild horse at which he was gazing with such 
fixed interest. The clear, deeply tanned skin of his cheeks 
glowed warmly with the red of his clean, rich blood, his 
eyes shone with suppressed excitement, his lips, slightly 
parted, curved in a smile of appreciation, love and reverence 
for the unspoiled beauty of the wild creature that he himself, 
in so many ways, unconsciously resembled. 

And Patches—bred and schooled in a world so far from 
this world of primitive things—looking from Phil to the 
wild horse, and back again from the stallion to the man, felt 
the spirit and the power that made them kin—felt it with 
a, to him, strange new feeling of reverence, as though in the 
perfect, unspoiled life-strength of man and horse he came 
in closer touch with the divine than he had ever known 
before. 

Then, without taking his eyes from the object of his 


152 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

almost worship, Phil said, “Now, watch him, Patches, watch 
him!” 

As he spoke, he moved slowly toward the band, while 
Patches rode close by his side. 

At their movement, the wild stallion called another warn¬ 
ing to his followers, and went a few graceful paces toward 
the slowly approaching men. And then, as they continued 
their slow advance, he wheeled with the smooth grace of a 
swallow, and, with a movement so light and free that he 
seemed rather to skim over the surface of the ground than 
to tread upon it, circled here and there about his band, 
assembling them in closer order, flying, with ears flat and 
teeth bared and mane and tail tossing, in lordly fury at the 
laggards, driving them before him, but keeping always 
between his charges and the danger until they were at what 
he evidently judged to be, for their inferior strength, a dis¬ 
tance of safety. Then again he halted his company and, 
moving alone a short way toward the horsemen, stood motion¬ 
less, watching their slow approach. 

Again Phil checked his horse. “God!” he exclaimed 
under his breath. “What a sight! Oh, you beauty! You 
beauty!” 

But Patches was moved less by the royal beauty of the 
wild stallion than by the passionate reverence that vibrated 
in his companion’s voice. 

Again the two horsemen moved forward; and again the 
stallion drove his band to a safe distance, and stood waiting 
between them and their enemies. 


153 






SYREN A MAN’S a man 


Then the cowboy laughed aloud—a hearty laugh of clean 
enjoyment. “All right, old fellow, I’ll just give you a whirl 
for luck,” he said aloud to the wild horse, apparently forget¬ 
ting his human companion. 

And Patches saw him shorten his reins, and rise a little 
in his stirrups, while his horse, as though understanding, 
gathered himself for a spring. In a flash Patches was alone, 
watching as Phil, riding with every ounce of strength that 
his mount could command, dashed straight toward the band. 

For a moment, the black stallion stood watching the now 
rapidly approaching rider. Then, wheeling, he started his 
band, driving them imperiously, now, to their utmost speed, 
and then, as though he understood this new maneuver of the 
cowboy, he swept past his running companions, with the 
clean, easy flight of an arrow, and taking his place at the 
head of his charges led them away toward Granite Mountain. 

Phil stopped, and Patches could see him watching, as 
the wild horses, with streaming manes and tails, following 
their leader, who seemed to run with less than half his 
strength, swept away across the rolling hillsides, growing 
smaller and smaller in the distance, until, as dark, swiftly 
moving dots, they vanished over the sky line. 

“Wasn’t that great?” cried Phil, when he had loped back 
to his companion. “Did you see him go by the bunch like 
they were standing still ?” 

“There didn’t seem to be much show for you to catch 
him,” said Patches. 

“Catch him!” exclaimed Phil. “Did you think I was 
trying to catch him? I just wanted to see him go. The 


154 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


horse doesn’t live that could put a man within roping distance 
of any one in that bunch.on a straightaway run, and the 
black can run circles around the whole outfit. I had him 
once, though.” 

“You caught that black!” exclaimed Patches—incredu¬ 
lously. 

Phil grinned. “I sure had him for a little while.” 

“But what is he doing out here running loose, then?” 
demanded the other. “Got away, did he ?” 

“Got away, nothing. Pact is, he belongs to me right 
now, in a way, and I wouldn’t swap him for any string of 
cow-horses that I ever saw.” 

Then, as they rode toward the home ranch, Phil told 
the story that is known throughout all that country. 

“It was when the black was a yearling,” he said. “I’d 
had my eye on him all the year, and so had some of the 
other boys who had sighted the band, for you could see, 
even when he was a colt, what he was going to be. The wild 
horses were getting rather too numerous that season, and we 
planned a chase to thin them out a little, as we do every two 
or three years. Of course, everybody was after the black; 
and one day, along toward the end of the chase, when the 
different bands had been broken up and scattered pretty 
much, I ran onto him. I was trailing an old gray up that 
draw—the way we went to-day, you know, and all at once 
I met him as he was coming over the top of the hill, right 
where you and I rode onto him. It was all so sudden that 
for a minute he was rattled as bad as I was; and, believe 
me, I was shaking like a leaf. I managed to come to, first,. 


155 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


though, and hung my rope on him before he could get started. 
I don’t know to this day where the old gray that I was after 
went. Well, sir, he fought like a devil, and for a spell we 
had it around and around until I wasn’t dead sure whether 
I had him or he had me. But he was only a yearling then, 
you see, and I finally got him down.” 

Phil paused, a peculiar expression on his face. Patches 
waited silently. 

“Do you know,” said the cowboy, at last, hesitatingly, 
“I can’t explain it—and I don’t talk about it much, for it 
was the strangest thing that ever happened to me—but when 
X looked into that black stallion’s eyes, and he looked me 
straight in the face, I never felt so sorry for anything in my 
life. I was sort of ashamed like—like—well, like I’d been 
caught holding up a church, you know, or something like 
that. We were all alone up there, just him and me, and 
while I was getting my wind, and we were sizing each other 
up, and I was feeling that way, I got to thinking what it 
all meant to him—to be broken and educated—and—well— 
civilized, you know; and I thought what a horse he would be 
if he was left alone to live as God made him, and so— 
well—” He paused again with an embarrassed laugh. 

“You let him go ?” cried Patches. 

“It’s God’s truth, Patches. I couldn’t do anything else 
—I just couldn’t. One of the boys came up just in time to 
catch me turning him loose, and, of course, the whole outfit 
just naturally raised hell about it. You see, in a chase 
like that, we always bunch all we get and sell them off to 
the highest bidder, and every man in the outfit shares alike. 


156 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The boys figured that the black was worth more than any 
five others that were caught, and so you couldn’t blame them 
for feeling sore. But I fixed it with them by turning all 
my share into the pot, so they couldn’t kick. That, you see, 
makes the black belong to me, in a way, and it’s pretty 
generally understood that I propose to take care of him. 
There was a fellow, riding in the rodeo last fall, that took 
a shot at him one day, and—well—he left the country right 
after it happened and hasn’t been seen around here since.” 

The cowboy grinned as his companion’s laugh rang out. 

“Do you know,” Phil continued in a low tone, a few 
minutes later, “I believe that horse knows me yet. Whenever 
I am over in this part of the country I always have a look 
j at him, if he happens to be around, and we visit a little, as 
! we did to-day. I’ve got a funny notion that he likes it as 
; much as I do, and, I can’t tell how it is, but it sort of makes 
me feel good all over just to see him. I reckon you think 
I’m some fool,” he finished with another short laugh of 
embarrassment, “but that’s the way I feel—and that’s why 
they call me ‘Wild Horse Phil’.” 

For a little they rode in silence; then Patches spoke, 
gravely, “I don’t know how to tell you what I think, Phil, 
but I understand, and from the bottom of my heart I envy 
you.” 

And the cowboy, looking at his companion, saw in the 
man’s eyes something that reminded him of that which he 
had seen in the wild horse’s eyes, that day when he had set 
him free. Had Patches, too, at some time in those days that 
were gone, been caught by the riata of circumstance or 

157 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


environment, and in some degree robbed of bis God-inherit- 
ance ? Pbil smiled at the fancy, but, smiling, felt its truth; 
and with genuine sympathy felt this also to be true, that 
the man might yet, by the strength that was deepest within 
him, regain that which he had lost. 

And so that day, as the man from the ranges and the 
man from the cities rode together, the feeling of kinship 
that each had instinctively recognized at their first meeting 
on the Divide was strengthened. They knew that a mutual 
understanding which could not have been put into words of 
any tongue or land was drawing them closer together. 

A few days later the incident occurred that fixed their 
friendship—as they thought—for all time to come. 






HIL and Patches were riding that day in the country 
about Old Camp. Early in the ‘ afternoon, they 
heard the persistent bawling of a calf, and upon 
riding toward the sound, found the animal deep in 
the cedar timber, which in that section thickly covers the 
ridges. The calf was freshly branded with the Tail- 
holt iron. It was done, Phil said, the day before, prob¬ 
ably in the late afternoon. The youngster was calling for 
his mother. 

“It’s strange, she is not around somewhere,’’^said Patches. 

“It would he more strange if she was,” retorted the 
cowboy shortly, and he looked from the calf to the distant 
Tailholt Mountain, as though he ware considering some prob- 
km which he did not, for some reason, care to share with 
ais companion. 

“There’s not much use to look for her,” he added, with 
grim disappointment. “That’s always the way. If we had 
ridden this range yesterday, instead of away over there in the 
Mint Wash country—I am always about a day behind.” 


159 









WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


There was something in the manner and in the quiet 
speech of the usually sunny-tempered foreman that made his 
companion hesitate to ask questions, or to offer comment 
with the freedom that he had learned to feel that first day 
of their riding together. During the hours that followed 
Phil said very little, and when he did speak his words were 
brief and often curt, while, to Patches, he seemed to study 
the country over which they rode with unusual care. When 
they had eaten their rather gloomy lunch, he was in the 
saddle again almost before Patches had finished, with seem¬ 
ingly no inclination for their usual talk. 

The afternoon was nearly gone, and they were making 
their way homeward when they saw a Cross-Triangle bull 
that had evidently been hurt in a fight. The animal was 
one of the Dean’s much-prized Herefords, and the wound 
needed attention. 

“We’ve got to dope that,” said Phil, “or the screwworms 
will be working in it sure.” He was taking down his riata 
and watching the bull, who was rumbling a sullen, deep¬ 
voiced challenge, as he spoke. 

“Can I help ?” asked Patches anxiously, as he viewed 
the powerful beast, for this was the first full-grown animal 
needing attention that he had seen in his few days’ experi¬ 
ence. 

“No,” returned Phil. “Just keep in the clear, that’s all. 
This chap is no calf, and he’s sore over his scrap. He’s on 
the prod right now.” 

It all happened in a few seconds. 

The cowboy’s horse, understanding from long experience 


160 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


that this threatening mark for his master’s riata was in no 
gentle frame of mind, fretted uneasily as though dreading 
his part in the task before them. Patches saw the whirling 
rope leave Phil’s hand, and saw it tighten, as the cowboy 
threw the weight of his horse against it; and then he caught 
a confused vision—a fallen, struggling horse with a man 
pinned to the ground beneath him, and a wickedly lowered 
head, with sharp horns and angry eyes, charging straight at 
them. 

Patches did not think—there was no time to think. With 
a yell of horror, he struck deep with both spurs, and his 
startled, pain-maddened horse leaped forward. Again he 
spurred cruelly with all his strength, and the next bound of 
his frenzied mount carried him upon those deadly horns. 
Patches remembered hearing a sickening rip, and a scream 
of fear and pain, as he felt the horse under him rise in the 
air. He never knew how he managed to free himself, as he 
fell backward with his struggling mount, but he distinctly 
saw Phil regain his saddle while his horse was in the very 
act of struggling to its feet, and he watched with anxious 
i interest as the cowboy forced his excited mount in front of 
the bull to attract the beast’s wicked attention. The bull, 
accepting the tantalizing challenge, charged again, and 
Patches, with a thrill of admiration for the man’s coolness 
and skill, saw that Phil was coiling his riata, even while his 
frightened horse, with terrific leaps, avoided those menacing 
horns. The bull stopped, shook his head in anger over his 
; failure, and looked back toward the man on foot. But again 
| that horse and rider danced temptingly before him, so close 


161 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


that it seemed he could not fail, and again he charged, only 
to find that his mad rush carried him still further from the 
helpless Patches. And by now, Phil had recovered his riata, 
and the loop was whirling in easy circles about his head. 
The cow-horse, as though feeling the security that was in 
that familiar motion of his master’s arm, steadied himself, 
and, in the few active moments that followed, obedient to 
every signal of his rider, did his part with almost human 
intelligence. - 

When the bull was safely tied, Phil went to the fright¬ 
fully injured horse, and with a merciful bullet ended the 
animal’s suffering. Then he looked thoughtfully at Patches, 
who stood gazing ruefully at the dead animal, as though he 
felt himself to blame for the loss of his employer’s property. 
A slight smile lightened the cowboy’s face, as he noticed his 
'Companion’s troubled thought. 

“I suppose I’ve done it now,” said Patches, as though 
expecting well-merited censure. 

Phil’s smile broadened. “You sure have,” he returned, 
as he wiped the sweat from his face. “I’m much obliged to 
you.” 

Patches looked at him in confused embarrassment. 

“Don’t you know that you saved my life?” asked Phil 
dryly. 

“But—but, I killed a good horse for the Dean,” stam¬ 
mered Patches. 

To which the Dean’s foreman returned with a grin, “I 
reckon Uncle Will can stand the loss—considering.” 

This relieved the tension, and they laughed together. 


162 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“But tell me something, Patches,” said Phil, curiously. 
“Why didn’t you shoot the bull when he charged me ?” 

“I didn’t think of it,” admitted Patches. “I didn’t really 
think of anything.” 

The cowboy nodded with understanding approval. “Eve 
noticed that the man to tie to, in sudden trouble, is the man 
who doesn’t have to think; the man, I mean, who just does 
the right thing instinctively, and waits to think about it 
afterwards when there’s time.” 

Patches was pleased. “I did the right thing, then ?” 

“It was the only thing you could do to save my life,” 
returned Phil seriously. “If you had tried to use your gun 
•—even if you could have managed to hit him—you wouldn’t 
have stopped him in time. If you had been where you could 
have put a bullet between his eyes, it might have worked, 
but”—he smiled again—“I’m mighty glad you didn’t think 
to try any experiments. Tell me something else,” he added. 
“Did you realize the chance you were taking for yourself ?” 

Patches shook his head. “I can’t say that I realized 
anything except that you were in a bad fix, and that it was 
up to me to do something quick. How did it happen, any¬ 
way ?” He seemed anxious to turn the conversation. 

“Diamond stepped in that hole there,” explained Phil. 
“When he turned over I sure thought it was all day for me. 
Believe me, I won’t forget this, Patches.” 

For another moment there was an embarrassed silence; 
then Patches said, “What puzzles me is, why you didn’t take 
a shot at him, after you were up, instead of risking your 
neck again trying to rope him.” 

163 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Why, there was no use killing a good bull, as long as 
there was any other way. It’s my business to keep him 
alive; that’s what I started in to do, wasn’t it?” And thus 
the cowboy, in a simple word or two, stated the creed of his 
profession, a creed that permits no consideration of personal 
danger or discomfort when the welfare of the employer’s 
property is at stake. 

When they had removed saddle and bridle from the dead 
horse and had cleaned the ugly wound in the bull’s side, Phil 
said, “Now, Mr. Honorable Patches, you’d better move on 
down the wash a piece, and get out of sight behind one of 
those cedars. This fellow is going to get busy again when 
I let him up. I’ll come along when I’ve got rid of him.” 

A little later, as Phil rode out of the cedars toward 
Patches, a deep, bellowing challenge came from up the wash. 

“He’s just telling us what he’ll do to us the next chance 
he gets,” chuckled Phil. “Hop up behind me now and we’ll 
go home.” 

The gloom, that all day had seemed to overshadow Phil, 
was effectually banished by the excitement of the incident, 
and he was again his sunny, cheerful self. As they rode, 
they chatted and laughed merrily. Then, suddenly, as it had 
happened that morning, the cowboy was again grim and 
silent. 

Patches was wondering what had so quickly changed his 
companion’s mood, when he caught sight of two horsemen, 
riding along the top of the ridge that forms the western side 
of the wash, their course paralleling that of the Cross- 
Triangle men, who were following the bed of the wash. 


164 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


When Patches directed Phil’s attention to the riders, the 
cowboy said shortly, “I’ve been watching them for the last 
ten minutes.” Then, as if regretting the manner of his reply, 
he added more kindly, “If they keep on the way they’re 
going, we’ll likely meet them about a mile down the wash 
where the ridge breaks.” 

“Do you know them ?” asked Patches curiously. 

“It’s Nick Cambert and that poor, lost dog of a Yavapai 
Joe,” Phil answered. 

“The Tailholt Mountain outfit,” murmured Patches, 
watching the riders on the ridge with quickened interest. 
“Do you know, Phil, I believe I have seen those fellows 
before.” 

“You have!” exclaimed Phil. “Where? When?” 

“I don’t know how to tell you where,” Patches replied, 
“but it was the day I rode the drift fence. They were on a 
ridge, across a little valley from me.” 

“That must have been this same Horse Wash that we’re 
following now,” replied Phil; “it widens out a bit below 
here. What makes you think it was Nick and Joe ?” 

“Why, those fellows up there look like the two that 1 
saw, one big one and one rather lightweight. They were 
the same distance from me, you know, and—yes—I am sure 
those are the same horses.” 

“Pretty good, Patches, but you ought to have reported it 
when you got home.” 

“Why, I didn’t think it of any importance.” 

“There are two rules that you must follow, always,” said 
the cowboy, “if you are going to learn to be a top hand in 

165 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


this business. The first is: to see everything that there is 
to see, and to see everything about everything that you see. 
And the second is: to remember it all. I don’t mind telling 
you, now, that Jim Reid found a calf, fresh-branded with 
the Tailholt iron, that same afternoon, in that same neighbor¬ 
hood; and that, on our side of the drift fence, he ran onto 
a Cross-Triangle cow that had lost her calf. There come 
our friends now.” 

The two horsemen were riding down the side of the hill 
at an angle that would bring about the meeting which Phil 
had foreseen. And Patches immediately broke the first of 
the two rules, for, while watching the riders, he did not 
notice that his companion loosened his gun in its holster. 

Nick Cambert was a large man, big-bodied and heavy, 
with sandy hair, and those peculiar light blue eyes which do 
not beget confidence. But, as the Tailholt Mountain men 
halted to greet Phil, Patches gave to Nick little more than a 
passing glance, so interested was he in the big man’s com¬ 
panion. 

It is doubtful if blood, training, environment, circum¬ 
stances, the fates, or whatever it is that gives to men individ¬ 
uality, ever marked a man with less manhood than was 
given to poor Yavapai Joe. Standing erect, he would have 
been, perhaps, a little above medium height, but thin and 
stooped, with a half-starved look, as he slouched listlessly in 
the saddle, it was almost impossible to think of him as a 
matured man. The receding chin, and coarse, loosely opened 
mouth, the pale, lifeless eyes set too closely together under 
a low forehead, with a ragged thatch of dead, mouse-colored 


166 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


hair, and a furtive, sneaking, lost-dog expression, proclaimed 
him the outcast that he was. 

The big man eyed Patches as he greeted the Cross-Tri¬ 
angle’s foreman. “Howdy, Phil!” 

“Hello, Nick!” returned Phil coldly. “Howdy, Joe!” 

The younger man, who was gazing stupidly at Patches, 
returned the salutation with an unintelligible mumble, and 
proceeded to roll a cigarette. 

“You folks at the Cross-Triangle short of horses?” asked 
Nick, with an evident attempt at jocularity, alluding to the 
situation of the two men, who were riding one horse. 

“We got mixed up with a hull back yonder,” Phil ex¬ 
plained briefly. 

“They can sure put a horse out o’ the game mighty quick 
sometimes,” commented the other. “I’ve lost a few that way 
myself. It’s about as far from here to my place as it is to 
Baldwin’s, or I’d help you out. You’re welcome, you know.” 

“Much obliged,” returned Phil, “but we’ll make it home 
all right. I reckon we’d better be moving, though. So long!” 

“Adios!” 

Throughout this brief exchange of courtesies, Yavapai 
Joe had not moved, except to puff at his cigarette; nor had 
| he ceased to regard Patches with a stupid curiosity. As Phil 
and Patches moved away, he still sat gazing after the stranger, 
I until he was aroused by a sharp word from Nick, as the latter 
turned his horse toward Tailholt Mountain. Without chang¬ 
ing his slouching position in the saddle, and with a final slink¬ 
ing, sidewise look toward Patches, the poor fellow obediently 
trailed after his master. 


167 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Patches could not resist the impulse to turn for another 
look at the wretched shadow of manhood that so interested 
him. 

“Well, what do you think of that pair?” asked Phil, 
breaking in upon his companion’s preoccupation. 

Patches shrugged his shoulders much as he had done that 
day of his first experience with the screwworms; then he 
said quietly, “Do you mind telling me about them, Phil?” 

“Why, there’s not much to tell,” returned the cowboy. 
“That is, there’s not much that anybody knows for certain. 
Nick was bom in Yavapai County. His father, old George 
Cambert, was one of the kind that seems honest enough, and 
industrious, too, but somehow always just misses it. They 
moved away to some place in Southern California when Nick 
was about grown. He came back six years ago, and located 
over there at the foot of Tailholt Mountain, and started his 
Four-Bar-M iron; and, one way or another, he’s managed to 
get together quite a bunch of stock. You see, his expenses 
don’t amount to anything, scarcely. He and Joe bach in an 
old shack that somebody built years ago, and they do all the 
riding themselves. Joe’s not much force, but he’s handier 
than you’d think, as long as there’s somebody around to tell 
him what to do, and sort of back him up. Nick, though, can 
do two men’s work any day in the year.” 

“But it’s strange that a man like Nick would have any¬ 
thing to do with such a creature as that poor specimen,” 
mused Patches. “Are they related in any way?” 

“Nobody knows,” answered Phil. “Joe first showed up 
at Prescott about four years ago with a man by the name of 


168 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Dry den, who claimed that Joe was his son. They camped 
just outside of town, in some dirty old tents, and lived by 
picking up whatever was lying around loose. Drvden 
wouldn’t work, and, naturally, no one would have Joe. 
Finally Dry den was sent up for robbing a store, and Joe 
nearly went with him. They let him off, I believe, because 
it was proved pretty well that he was only Dryden’s tool, and 
didn’t have nerve enough to do any real harm by himself. 
He drifted around for several months, living like a stray cur, 
until Nick took him in tow. Nick treats him shamefully, 
abuses him like a beast, and works him like a slave. The 
poor devil stays on with him because he doesn’t know what 
else to do, I suppose.” 

“Is he always like we saw him to-day?” asked Patches, 
who seemed strangely interested in this bit of human drift. 
“Doesn’t he ever talk?” 

“Oh, yes, he’ll talk all right, when Nick isn’t around, oi 
when there are not too many present. Get off somewhere 
alone with him, after he gets acquainted a little, and he’s not 
half such bad company as he looks. I reckon that’s the main 
reason why Nick keeps him. You see, no decent cow-puncher 
would dare work at Tailholt Mountain, and a man gets 
mighty lonesome living so much alone. But Joe never talks 
about where he came from, or who he is; shuts up like a clam 
if you so much as mention anything that looks like you were 
trying to find out about him. He’s not such a fool as he looks, 
either, so far as that goes, but he’s always got that sneaking, 
coyote sort of look, and whatever he does he does in that same 
way.” 


1G9 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“In other words,” commented Patches thoughtfully, 
“poor Joe must have someone to depend on; taken alone he 
counts no more than a cipher.” 

“That’s it,” said Phil. “With somebody to feed him, and 
think for him, and take care of him, and be responsible for 
him, in some sort of a way, he makes almost one.” 

“After all, Phil,” said Patches, with bitter sarcasm, 
“poor Yavapai Joe is not so much different from hundreds of 
men that I know. By their standards he should be envied.” 

Phil was amazed at his companion’s words, for they 
seemed to hint at something in the man’s past, and Patches, 
so far as his reticence upon any subject that approached his 
own history, was always as silent as Yavapai Joe himself. 

“What do you mean by that?” Phil demanded. “What 
sort of men do you mean ?” 

“I mean the sort that never do anything of their own free 
wills; the sort that have someone else to think for them, and 
feed them, and take care of them, and take all the responsi¬ 
bility for what they do or do not do. I mean those who are 
dependents, and those who aspire to be dependent. I can’t 
see that it makes any essential difference whether they have 
inherited wealth and what we call culture, or whether they 
are poverty-stricken semi-imbeciles like Joe; the principle is 
the same.” 

As they dismounted at the home corral gate, Phil looked 
at his companion curiously. “You seem mighty interested 
in Joe,” he said, with a smile. 

“I am,” retorted Patches. “He reminds me of—of some¬ 
one I know,” he finished, with his old, self-mocking smile. 

170 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“I have a fellow feeling for him, the same as you have for 
that wild horse, yon know. I’d like to take him away from 
Nick, and see if it would be possible to make a real man of 
him,” he mused, more to himself than to his companion. 

“I don’t believe I’d try any experiments along that line, 
Patches,” cautioned Phil. “You’ve got to have something 
to build on when you start to make a man. The raw material 
is not in Joe, and, besides,” he added significantly, “folks 
might not understand.” 

Patches laughed bitterly. “I have my hands full now.” 



The next morning the foreman said that he would give 
that day to the horses he was training, and sent Patches, 
alone, after the saddle and bridle which they had left near 
! the scene of the accident. 

“You can’t miss finding the place again,” he said to 
Patches; “just follow up the wash. You’ll be back by noon— 
if you don’t try any experiments,” he added laughing. 

Patches had ridden as far as the spot where he and Phil 
had met the Tailholt Mountain men, and was thirsty. He 
thought of the distance he had yet to go, and then of the 
return back to the ranch, in the heat of the day. He remem¬ 
bered that Phil had told him, as they were riding out the 
morning before, of a spring a little way up the small side 
canyon that opens into the main wash through that break in 
the ridge. For a moment he hesitated; then he turned aside, 
determined to find the water. 


171 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Riding perhaps two hundred yards into that narrow gap 
in the ridge, he found the way suddenly becoming steep and 
roughly strewn with boulders, and, thinking to make better 
time, left his horse tied to a bush in the shadow of the rocky 
wall, while he climbed up the dry watercourse on foot. He 
found, as Phil had said, that it was not far. Another hun¬ 
dred yards up the boulder-strewn break in the ridge, and he 
came out into a beautiful glade, where he found the spring, 
clear and cold, under a moss-grown rock, in the deep shade of 
an old gnarled and twisted cedar. Gratefully he threw him¬ 
self down and drank long and deep; then sat for a few 
moments’ rest, before making his way back to his horse. 
The moist, black earth of the cuplike hollow was roughly 
trampled by the cattle that knew the spot, and there were 
well-marked trails leading down through the heavy growth 
of brush and trees that clothed the hillsides. So dense was 
this forest growth, and so narrow the glade, that the sunlight 
only reached the cool retreat through a network of leaves and 
branches, in ever-shifting spots and bars of brightness. Nor 
could one see very far through the living screens. 

Patches was on the point of going, when he heard voices 
and the sound of horses’ feet somewhere above. For a mo¬ 
ment he sat silently listening. Then he realized that the 
riders were approaching, down one of the cattle trails. A 
moment more, and he thought he recognized one of the voices. 
There was a low, murmuring, whining tone, and then a rough, 
heavy voice, raised seemingly in anger. Patches felt sure, 
now, that he knew the speakers; and, obeying one of those 
impulses that so often prompted his actions, he slipped quietly 

172 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


into the dense growth on the side of the glade opposite the 
approaching riders. He was scarcely hidden—a hundred feet 
or so from the spring—when Nick Cambert and Yavapai Joe 
rode into the glade. 

If Patches had paused to think, he likely would have dis¬ 
dained to play the part of a hidden spy; but he had acted 
without thinking, and no sooner was he concealed than he 
realized that it was too late. So he smiled mockingly at him¬ 
self, and awaited developments. He had heard and seen 
enough, since he had been in the Dean’s employ, to under¬ 
stand the suspicion in which the owner of the Eour-Bar-M 
iron was held; and from even his few days’ work on the range 
in company with Phil, he had come to understand how diffi¬ 
cult it was for the cattlemen to prove anything against the 
man who they had every reason to believe was stealing their 
stock. It was the possibility of getting some positive evi¬ 
dence, and of thus protecting his employer’s property, that 
had really prompted him to take advantage of the chance 
situation. 

As the two men appeared, it was clear to the hidden 
observer that the weakling had in some way incurred his 
master’s displeasure. The big man’s face was red with anger, 
i and his eyes were hard and cruel, while Joe had more than 
Ij ever the look of a lost dog that expects nothing less than a 
curse and a kick. 

Nick drank at the spring, then turned back to his com¬ 
panion, who had not dismounted, but sat on his horse cring¬ 
ing and frightened, trying, with fluttering fingers, to roll a 
cigarette. A moment the big man surveyed his trembling 

173 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

follower; then, taking a heavy quirt from his saddle, he said 
with a contemptuous sneer, "Well, why don’t you get your 
drink ?” 

"I ain’t thirsty, Nick,” faltered the other. 

"You ain’t thirsty?” mocked the man with a jeering 
laugh. "You’re lying, an’ you know it. Get down!” 

"Hones’ to God, Nick, I don’t want no drink,” whimpered 
Joe, as his master toyed with the quirt suggestively. 

"Get down, I tell you!” commanded the big man. 

Joe obeyed, his thin form shaking with fear, and stood 
shrinking against his horse’s side, his fearful eyes fixed on 
the man. 

"Now, come here.” 

"Don’t, Nick; for God’s sake! don’t hit me. I didn’t 
mean no harm. Let me off this time, won’t you, Nick ?” 

"Come here. You got it cornin’, damn you, an’ you know 
it. Come here, I say!” 

As if it were beyond his power to refuse, the wretched 
creature took a halting step or two toward the man whose 
brutal will dominated him; then he paused and half turned, 
as if to attempt escape. But that menacing voice stopped 
him. 

"Come here!” 

Whimpering and begging, with disconnected, unintelli¬ 
gible words, the poor fellow again started toward the man 
with the quirt. 

At the critical moment a quiet, well-schooled voice inter¬ 
rupted the scene. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Cambert!” 

174 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Nick whirled with an oath of surprise and astonishment, 
to face Patches, who was coming leisurely toward him from 
the bushes above the spring. 

“What are you doin’ here?” demanded Nick, while his 
victim slunk back to his horse, his eyes fixed upon the intruder 
with dumb amazement. 

“I came for a drink,” returned Patches cooLly. “Excel¬ 
lent water, isn’t it? And the day is really quite warm— 
makes one appreciate such a delightfully cool retreat, don’t 
you think ?” 

“Heard us cornin’ an’ thought you’d play the spy, did 
you?” growled the Tailholt Mountain man. 

Patches smiled. “Keally, you know, I am afraid I didn’t 
think much about it,” he said gently. “I’m troubled that 
way, you see,” he explained, with elaborate politeness. “Often 
do things upon impulse, don’t you know—beastly embarrass¬ 
ing sometimes.” 

Nick glared at this polite, soft-spoken gentleman, with 
half-amused anger. “I heard there was a dude tenderfoot 
hangin’ ’round the Cross-Triangle,” he said, at last. “You’re 
sure a hell of a fine specimen. You’ve had your drink; now 
s’pose you get a-goin’.” 

“I beg pardon ?” drawled Patches, looking at him with 
innocent inquiry. 

“Vamoose! Get out! Go on about your business.” 

“Really, Mr. Cambert, I understood that this was open 
range—” Patches looked about, as though carefully assuring 
himself that he was not mistaken in the spot. 

The big man’s eyes narrowed wickedly. “It’s closed tc 

175 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


you, all right.” Then, as Patches did not move, “Well, are 
you goin’, or have I got to start you ?” He took a threatening 
step toward the intruder. 

“No,” returned Patches easily, “I am certainly not going 
—not just at present—and,” he added thoughtfully, “if I 
were you, I wouldn’t try to start anything.” 

Something in the extraordinary self-possession of this 
soft-spoken stranger made the big man hesitate. “Oh, you 
wouldn’t, heh ?” he returned. “You mean, I s’pose, that you 
propose to interfere with my business.” 

“If, by your business, you mean beating a man who is 
so unable to protect himself, I certainly propose to interfere.” 

For a moment Nick glared at Patches as though doubting 
his own ears. Then rage at the tenderfoot’s insolence mas¬ 
tered him. With a vile epithet, he caught the loaded quirt 
in his hand by its small end, and strode toward the intruder. 

But even as the big man swung his wicked weapon aloft, 
a hard fist, with the weight of a well-trained and well-devel¬ 
oped shoulder back of it, found the point of his chin with 
scientific accuracy. The force of the blow, augmented as it 
was by Nick’s weight as he was rushing to meet it, was terrific. 
The man’s head snapped back, and he spun half around as he 
fell, so that the uplifted arm with its threatening weapon was 
twisted under the heavy bulk that lay quivering and harmless. 

Patches coolly bent over the unconscious man and ex¬ 
tracted his gun from the holster. Then, stepping back a few 
paces, he quietly waited. 

Yavapai Joe, who had viewed the proceedings thus far 
with gaping mouth and frightened wonder, scrambled into 

176 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


his saddle and reined his horse about, as if to ride for his life, 

“Wait, Joe!” called Patches sharply. 

The weakling paused in pitiful indecision. 

“Nick will be all right in a few minutes,” continued the 
stranger, reassuringly. “Stay where you are.” 

Even as he spoke, the man on the ground opened his eyes. 
Eor a moment he gazed about, collecting his shocked and 
scattered senses. Then, with a mad roar, he got to his feet 
and reached for his gun, but when his hand touched the empty 
holster a look of dismay swept over his heavy face, and he 
looked doubtfully toward Patches, with a degree of respect 
and a somewhat humbled air. 

“Yes, I have your gun,” said Patches soothingly. “You 
see, I thought it would be best to remove the temptation. You 
don’t really want to shoot me, anyway, you know. You only 
think you do. When you have had time to consider it all, 
calmly, you’ll thank me; because, don’t you see, I would make 
you a lot more trouble dead than I could possibly, alive. I 
don’t think that Mr. Baldwin would like to have me all shot 
to pieces, particularly if the shooting were done by someone 
from Tailholt Mountain. And I am quite sure that ‘Wild 
Horse Phil’ would be very much put out about it.” 

“Well, what do you want ?” growled Nick. “You’ve got 
the drop on me. What are you after, anyway ?” 

“What peculiar expressions you western people use!” 
murmured Patches sweetly. “You say that I have got the 
drop on you; when, to be exact, you should have said that 
you got the drop from me—do you see ? Good, isn’t it ?” 

Nick’s effort at self-control was heroic. 


177 


WHEN’ A MAN’S A MAN 


Patches watched him with an insolent, taunting smile that 
goaded the man to reckless speech. 

“If you didn’t have that gun, I’d—” the big man began, 
then stopped, for, as he spoke, Patches placed the weapon 
carefully on a rock and went toward him barehanded. 

“You would do what ?” 

At the crisp, eager question that came in such sharp con¬ 
trast to Patches’ former speech, Nick hesitated and drew 
back a step. 

Patches promptly moved a step nearer; and his woras 
came, now, in answer to the unfinished threat with cutting 
force. “What would you do, you big, hulking swine ? You 
can bully a weakling not half your size; you can beat a help¬ 
less incompetent like a dog; you can bluster, and threaten a 
tenderfoot when you think he fears you; you can attack a 
man with a loaded quirt when you think him unable to defend 
himself;—show me what you can do now ’’ 

The Tailholt Mountain man drew back another step. 

Patches continued his remarks. “You are a healthy sped 
men, you are. You have the frame of a bull with the spirit 
of a coyote and the courage of a sucking dove. Now—in 
your own vernacular—get a-goin’. Vamoose! Get out! I 
want to talk to your superior over there.” 

Sullenly Nick Cambert mounted his horse and turned 
away toward one of the trails leading out from the little 
arena. 

“Come along, Joe!” he called to his follower. 

“No, you don’t,” Patches cut in with decisive force. “Joe, 
stay where you are!” 


178 


WHEN* A MAN’S A MAN 


Nick paused. “What do you mean by that?” he growled. 

“I mean,” returned Patches, “that Joe is free to go with 
you, or not, as he chooses. Joe,” he continued, addressing 
the cause of the controversy, “you need not go with this man. 
If you wish, you can come with me. I’ll take care of you; 
and I’ll give you a chance to make a man of yourself.” 

Nick laughed coarsely. “So, that’s your game, is it ? 
Well, it won’t work. I know now why Bill Baldwin’s got 
you hangin’ ’round, pretendin’ you’re a tenderfoot, you 
damned spy. Come on, Joe.” He turned to ride on; and 
Joe, with a slinking, sidewise look at Patches, started to 
follow. 

Again Patches called, “Wait, Joe!” and his voice was 
almost pleading. “Can’t you understand, Joe? Come with 
me. Don’t be a dog for any man. Let me give you a chance. 
Be a man, Joe—for God’s sake, be a man! Come with me.” 

“Well,” growled Nick to his follower, as Patches finished, 
“are you cornin’ or have I got to go and get you ?” 

With a sickening, hangdog look Joe mumbled something 
and rode after his master. 

As they disappeared up the trail, Nick called back, “I'll 
get you yet, you sneakin’ spy.” 

“Not after you’ve had time to think it over,” answered 
Patches cheerfully. “It would interfere too much with your 
real business. I’ll leave your gun at the gate of that old corral 
up the wash. Good-by, Joe!” 

For a few moments longer the strange man stood in the 
glade, listening to the vanishing sounds of their going, while 
that mirthless, self-mocking smile curved his lips. 

179 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Poor devil!” he muttered sadly, as he turned at last to 
make his way back to his horse. “Poor Joe! I know just 
how he feels. It’s hard—it’s beastly hard to break away.” 

“I’m afraid I have made trouble for you, sir,” Patches 
said ruefully to the Dean, as he briefly related the incident 
to his employer and to Phil that afternoon. “I’m sorry; I 
really didn’t stop to think.” 

“Trouble!” retorted the Dean, his eyes twinkling ap¬ 
proval, while Phil laughed joyously. “Why, man, we’ve been 
prayin’ for trouble with that blamed Tailholt Mountain out¬ 
fit. You’re a plumb wonder, young man. But what in 
thunder was you aimin’ to do with that ornery Yavapai Joe, 
if he’d a’ took you up on your fool proposition ?” 

“Really, to tell the truth,” murmured Patches, “I don’t 
exactly know. I fancied the experiment would be interest¬ 
ing; and I was so sorry for the poor chap that I—” he 
stopped, shamefaced, to join in the laugh. 

But, later, the Dean and Phil talked together privately, 
with the result that during the days that followed, as Patches 
and his teacher rode the range together, the pupil found 
revolver practice added to his studies. 

The art of drawing and shooting a “six-gun” with quick¬ 
ness and certainty was often a useful part of the cowboy’s 
training, Phil explained cheerfully. “In the case, for in¬ 
stance, of a mixu.p with a bad steer, when your horse falls, or 
something like that, you know.” 



180 



iii 


S the remaining weeks of the summer passed, Patches, 
spent the days riding the range with Phil, and. 
under the careful eye of that experienced teacher, 
made rapid progress in the work he had chosen to 
The man’s intense desire to succeed, his quick 
his instinct for acting without hesi- 


master. 

intelligence, with 
tation, and his reckless disregard for personal injury, together 
with his splendid physical strength, led him to a mastery 
of the details of a cowboy’s work with remarkable readiness. 

Occasionally the two Cross-Triangle riders saw the men 
from Tailholt Mountain, sometimes merely sighting them 
in the distance, and, again, meeting them face to face at some 
watering place or on the range. When it happened that Nick 
Cambert was thus forced to keep up a show of friendly rela¬ 
tions with the Cross-Triangle, the few commonplaces of the 
country were exchanged, but always the Tailholt Mountain 
man addressed his words to Phil, and, save for surly looks, 
ignored the foreman’s companion. He had evidently—as 


181 





WHEN" A MAK’S A MAE' 


Patches had said that he would—come to realize that he could 
not afford to arouse the cattlemen to action against him, as 
he would certainly have done, had he attempted to carry out 
his threat to “get” the man who had so humiliated him. 

But Patches’ strange interest in Yavapai Joe in no way 
lessened. Always he had a kindly word for the poor unfortu¬ 
nate, and sought persistently to win the weakling’s friend¬ 
ship. And Phil seeing this wondered, hut held his peace. 

Frequently Kitty Reid, sometimes alone, often with the 
other members of the Reid household, came across the big 
meadow to spend an evening at the neighboring ranch. Some¬ 
times Phil and Patches, stopping at the Pot-IIook-S home 
ranch, at the close of the day, for a drink at the windmill 
pump, would linger a while for a chat with Kitty, who w r ould 
come from the house to greet them. And now and then Kitty, 
out for a ride on Midnight, would chance to meet the two 
Cross-Triangle men on the range, and so would accompany 
them for an hour or more. 

And thus the acquaintance between Patches and the girl 
grew into friendship; for Kitty loved to talk with this man 
of the things that play so large a part in that life which so 
appealed to her; and, with Phil’s ever-ready and hearty 
endorsement of Patches, she felt safe in permitting the friend¬ 
ship to develop. And Patches, quietly observing, with now 
and then a conversational experiment—at wiiieh game he 
was an adept—came to understand, almost as well as if he 
had been told, Phil’s love for Kitty and her attitude toward 
the cowboy—her one-time schoolmate and sweetheart. Many 


182 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


times when the three were together, and the talk, guided by 
Kitty, led far from Phil’s world, the cowboy would sit a 
silent listener, until Patches would skillfully turn the current 
back to the land of Granite Mountain and the life in which 
Phil had so vital a part. 

In the home-life at the Cross-Triangle, too, Patches 
gradually came to hold his own peculiar place. His cheerful 
helpfulness, and gentle, never-failing courtesy, no less than 
the secret pain and sadness that sometimes, at some chance 
remark, drove the light from his face and brought that wist¬ 
ful look into his eyes, w T on Mrs. Baldwin’s heart. Many an 
evening under his walnut trees, with Stella and Phil and 
Curly and Bob and Little Billy near, the Dean was led by 
the rare skill and ready wit of Patches to open the book of his 
kindly philosophy, as he talked of the years that were past. 
And sometimes Patches himself, yielding to temptation of¬ 
fered by the Dean, would speak in such vein that the older 
man came to understand that this boy, as he so often called 
him, had somewhere, somehow, already experienced that 
Gethsemane which soon or late—the Dean maintains—leaves 
its shadow upon us all. The cowboys, for his quick and 
genuine appreciation of their skill and knowledge, as well as 
for his unassuming courage, hearty good nature and ready 
laugh, took him into their fellowship without question or 
reserve, while Little Billy, loyal ever to his ideal, “Wild 
Horse Phil,” found a large place in his boyish heart for the 
tenderfoot who was so ready always to recognize superior wis¬ 
dom and authority. 


183 



WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


So the stranger found his place among them, and in find* 
ing it, found also, perhaps, that which he most sorely needed. 



When rodeo time came Patches was given a “string” of 
horses and, through the hard, grilling work that followed, 
took his place among the riders. There was no leisurely 
roaming over the range now, with only an occasional short 
dash after some animal that needed the “iron” or the “dope 
can;” but systematically and thoroughly the thirty or forty 
cowboys covered the country—mountain and mesa and flat, 
and wash and timbered ridge and rocky pass—for many 
miles in every direction. 

In this section of the great western cattle country, at the 
time of my story, the round-ups were cooperative. Each of 
the several ranchers whose cattle, marked by the owner’s 
legally recorded brand, ranged over a common district that 
was defined only by natural boundaries, was represented in 
the rodeo by one or two or more of his cowboys, the number 
of his riders being relative to the number of cattle marked 
with his iron. This company of riders, each with from three 
to five saddle horses in his string, would assemble at one of 
the ranches participating in the rodeo. Erom this center they 
would work until a circle of country within riding distance 
was covered, the cattle gathered and “worked”—or, in other 
words, sorted—and the animals belonging to the various own¬ 
ers disposed of as the representatives were instructed by their 
employers. Then the rodeo would move to another ranch, 


184 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


and would so continue until the entire district of many miles 
was covered. The owner or the foreman of each ranch was 
in charge of the rodeo as long as the riders worked in his 
territory. When the company moved to the next point, this 
leader took his place in the ranks, and cheerfully received his 
orders from some comrade, who, the day before, had been as 
willingly obedient to him. There was little place in the rodeo 
for weak, incompetent or untrustworthy men. Each owner, 
from his long experience and knowledge of men, sent as his 
representatives the most skillful and conscientious riders that 
he could secure. To make a top hand at a rodeo a man needed 
to be, in the truest sense, a man. 

Before daylight, the horse wrangler had driven in the 
saddle band, and the men, with nose bags fashioned from 
grain sacks, were out in the corral to give the hard-working 
animals their feed of barley. The gray quiet of the early 
dawn was rudely broken by the sounds of the crowding, 
jostling, kicking, squealing band, mingled with the merry 
voices of the men, with now and then a shout of anger or 
warning as the cowboys moved here and there among their 
restless four-footed companions; and always, like a deep 
undertone, came the sound of trampling, iron-shod hoofs. 

Before the sky had changed to crimson and gold the call 
sounded from the ranch house, “Come and get it!” and laugh¬ 
ing and joking in friendly rivalry, the boys rushed to break¬ 
fast. It was no dainty meal of toast and light cereals that 
these hardy ones demanded. But huge cuts of fresh-killed 
beef, with slabs of bread, and piles of potatoes, and stacks of 
hot cakes, and buckets of coffee, and whatever else the hard- 


185 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


working Chinaman could lay his hands on to satisfy their 
needs. As soon as each man reached the utmost limit of his 
capacity, he left the table without formality, and returned to 
the corral, where, with riata or persuasion, as the case de¬ 
manded, he selected from his individual string of horses his 
first mount for the day. 

By the time the sun was beginning to gild the summit 
of old Granite Mountain’s castle-like walls, and touch with 
glorious color the peaks of the neighboring sentinel hills, the 
last rider had saddled, and the company was mounted and 
ready for their foreman’s word. Then to the music of 
jingling spurs, tinkling bridle chains, squeaking saddle 
leather, and the softer swish and rustle and flap of chaps, 
romals and riatas, they rode forth, laughing and joking, still, 
with now and then a roaring chorus of shouting comment or 
wild yells, as some half-broken horse gave an exhibition of 
his prowess in a mad effort to unseat his grinning rider. 

Soon the leader would call the name of a cowboy, known 
to be particularly familiar with the country which was to be 
the scene of that day’s work, and telling him to take two or 
three or more men, as the case might be, would direct him to 
ride over a certain section, indicating the assigned territory 
by its natural marks of valley or flat or wash or ridge, and 
designating the point where the cattle would first be brought 
together. The cowboy named would rein his horse aside from 
the main company, calling the men of his choice as he did so, 
and a moment later with his companions would be lost to 
sight. A little farther, and again the foreman would name a 
rider, and, telling him to pick his men, would assign to him 


186 


WHEX A MAX’S A MAX 


another section of the district to be covered, and this cowboy, 
with his chosen mates, would ride away. These smaller 
groups would, in their turn, separate, and thus the entire 
company of riders would open out like a huge fan to sweep 
the coimtryside. 

It was no mere pleasure canter along smoothly graded 
bridle paths or well-kept country highways that these men 
rode. From roughest rock-strewn mountain side and tree- 
clad slope, from boulder-piled watercourse and tangled brush, 
they must drive in the scattered cattle. At reckless speed, as 
their quarry ran and turned and dodged, they must hesitate 
at nothing. Climbing to the tops of the hills, scrambling 
catlike to the ragged crests of the ridges, sliding down the 
bluffs, jumping deep arroyos, leaping brush and boulders, 
twisting, dodging through the timber, they must go as fast as 
the strength and endurance of their mounts would permit. 
And so, gradually, as the sun climbed higher above the peaks 
and crags of Old Granite, the great living fan of men and 
horses closed, the courses of the widely scattered riders lead¬ 
ing them, with the cattle they had found, to the given point. 

And now, the cattle, urged by the active horsemen, came 
streaming from the different sections to form the herd, and 
the quiet of the great range was broken by the bawling of con¬ 
fused and frightened calves, the lowing of anxious mothers, 
the shrill, long-drawn call of the steers, and the deep bellow¬ 
ing of the bulls, as the animals, so rudely driven from their 
peaceful feeding grounds, moved restlessly within the circle 
of guarding cowboys, while cows found their calves, and the 
monarchs of the range met in fierce combat. 

187 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


A number of the men—those whose mounts most needed 
the rest—were now left to hold the herd, or, perhaps, to move 
it quietly on to some other point, while the others were again 
sent out to cover another section of the territory included in 
that day’s riding. As the hours passed, and the great fan of 
horsemen opened and closed, sweeping the cattle scattered 
over the range into the steadily growing herd, the rodeo 
moved gradually toward some chosen open flat or valley that 
afforded a space large enough for the operations that followed 
the work of gathering. At this “rodeo ground” a man would 
he waiting with fresh mounts for the riders, and, sometimes, 
with lunch. Quickly, those whose names were called hy the 
foreman would change their saddles from dripping, exhausted 
horses to fresh animals from their individual strings, snatch 
a hasty lunch—often to he eaten in the saddle—and then, in 
their turn, would hold the cattle while their companions fol¬ 
lowed their example. 

Then came the fast, hot work of “parting” the cattle. The 
representatives from one of the ranches interested would ride 
in among the cattle held by the circle of cowboys, and, follow¬ 
ing their instructions, would select such animals bearing their 
employer’s brand as were wanted, cutting them out and pass¬ 
ing them through the line of guarding riders, to be held in a 
separate group. When the representatives of one owner had 
finished, they were followed by the men who rode for some 
other outfit; and so on, until the task of “parting” was fin¬ 
ished. 

As the afternoon sun moved steadily toward the skyline 
of the western hills, the tireless activity of men and horses 


188 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


continued. The cattle, as the mounted men moved among 
them, drifted about, crowding and jostling, in uneasy discon¬ 
tent, with sometimes an indignant protest, and many attempts 
at escape by the more restless and venturesome. When an 
animal was singled out, the parting horses, chosen and prized 
for their quickness, dashed here and there through the herd 
with fierce leaps and furious rushes, stopping short in a 
terrific sprint to whirl, flashlike, and charge in another direc¬ 
tion, as the quarry dodged and doubled. And now and then 
an animal would succeed for the moment in passing the guard 
line, only to be brought back after a short, sharp chase by 
the nearest cowboy. From the rodeo ground, where for long 
years the grass had been trampled out, the dust, lifted by the 
trampling thousands of hoofs in a dense, choking cloud, and 
heavy with the pungent odor of warm cattle and the smell of 
sweating horses, rising high into the clear air, could be seen 
from miles away, while the mingled voices of the bellowing, 
bawling herd, with now and then the shrill, piercing yells of 
the cowboys, could be heard almost as far. 

When this part of the work was over, some of the riders 
set out to drive the cattle selected to the distant home ranch 
corrals, while others of the company remained to brand the 
calves and to start the animals that were to have their freedom 
until the next rodeo time back to the open range. And so, at 
last—often not until the stars were out—the riders would 
dismount at the home corrals of the ranch that, at the time, 
waSjthe center of their operations, or, perhaps, at some rodeo 
camping ground 

At supper the day’s work was reviewed with many a 


189 



WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


laugh and jest of pointed comment, and then, those whose 
horses needed attention because of saddle sores or, it might 
be, because of injuries from some fall on the rocks, busied 
themselves at the corral, while others met for a friendly game 
of cards, or talked and yarned over restful pipe or cigarette. 
And then, bed and blankets, and, all too soon, the reveille 
sounded by the beating hoofs of the saddle band as the 
wrangler drove them in, announced the beginning of another 
day. 

Not infrequently there were accidents—from falling 
horses—from angry bulls—from ill-tempered steers, or ex¬ 
cited cows—or, perhaps, from a carelessly handled rope in 
some critical moment. Horses were killed; men with broken 
limbs, or with bodies bruised and crushed, were forced to drop 
out; and many a strong horseman who rode forth in the morn¬ 
ing to the day’s work, laughing and jesting with his mates, 
had been borne by his grave and silent comrades to some quiet 
resting place, to await, in long and dreamless sleep, the morn¬ 
ing of that last great rodeo which, we are told, shall gather 
us all. 

Day after day, as Patches rode w T ith these hardy men, 
Phil watched him finding himself and winning his place 
among the cowboys. They did not fail, as they said, to “try 
him out.” Nor did Phil, in these trials, attempt in any way 
to assist his pupil. But the men learned very quickly, as 
Curly had learned at the time of Patches’ introduction, that, 
while the new man was always ready to laugh with them 
when a joke was turned against himself, there was a line 
beyond which it was not well to go. In the work he was, of 

190 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


course, assigned only to such parts as did not require the skill 
and knowledge of long training and experience. But he did 
all that was given him to do with such readiness and skill, 
j thanks to Phil’s teaching, that the men wondered. And this, 
together with his evident ability in the art of defending him¬ 
self, and the story of his strange coming to the Cross-Tri- 

I angle, caused not a little talk, with many and varied opinions 
as to who he was, and what it was that had brought him 
among them. Strangely enough, very few believed that 
I Patches’ purpose in working as a cowboy for the Dean was 
simply to earn an honest livelihood. They felt instinctively 
—as, in fact, did Phil and the Dean—that there was some¬ 
thing more beneath it all than such a commonplace. 

Nick Cambert, who, with Yavapai Joe, rode in the rodeo, 
carefully avoided the stranger. But Patches, by his persistent 
friendly interest in the Tailholt Mountain man’s follower, 
added greatly to the warmth of the discussions and conjec¬ 
tures regarding himself. The rodeo had reached the Pot- 
Ilook-S Ranch, with Jim Reid in charge, when the incident 
occurred which still further stimulated the various opinions 
and suggestions as to the new man’s real character and mis¬ 
sion. 

They were working the cattle that day on the rodeo 
ground just outside the home ranch corral. Phil and Curly 
were cutting out some Cross-Triangle steers, when the riders, 
who were holding the cattle, saw them separate a nine-months- 
old calf from the herd, and start it, not toward the cattle they 
had already cut out, but toward the corral. 

Instantly everybody knew what had happened. 


191 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The cowboy nearest the gate did not need Phil’s word to 
open it for his neighbor next in line to drive the calf inside. 

Not a word was said until the calves to be branded were 
also driven into the corral. Then Phil, after a moment’s talk 
with Jim Reid, rode up to Nick Cambert, who was sitting 
on his horse a little apart from the group of intensely inter¬ 
ested cowboys. The Cross-Triangle foreman’s tone was curt. 
“I reckon I’ll have to trouble you to vent your brand on that 
Cross-Triangle calf, Nick.” 

The Tailholt Mountain man made no shallow pretense 
that he did not understand. “Not by a damn sight,” he 
returned roughly. “I ain’t raisin’ calves for Bill Baldwin, 
an’ I happen to know what I’m talkin’ about this trip. That’s 
a Eour-Bar-M calf, an’ I branded him myself over in Horse 
Wash before he left the cow. Some of your punchers are too 
damned handy with their runnin’ irons, Mr. Wild Horse 
Phil.” 

For a moment Phil looked at the man, while Jim Reid 
moved his horse nearer, and the cowboys waited, breathlessly. 
Then, without taking his eyes from the Tailholt Mountain 
man’s face, Phil called sharply: 

“Patches, come here!” 

There was a sudden movement among the riders, and a 
subdued murmur, as Patches rode forward. 

“Is that calf you told me about in the corral, Patches ?” 
asked Phil, when the man was beside him. 

“Yes, sir; that’s him over there by that brindle cow.” 
Patches indicated the animal in question. 


192 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“And you put our iron on him ?” asked Phil, still watch¬ 
ing Nick. 

“I did,” returned Patches, coolly. 

“Tell us about it,” directed the Dean’s foreman. 

And Patches obeyed, briefly. “It was that day you sent 
me to fix the fence on the southwest corner of the big pasture. 
I saw a bunch of cattle a little way outside the fence, and 
went to look them over. This calf was following a Cross- 
Triangle cow.” 

“Are you sure ?” 

“Yes, sir. I watched them for half an hour.” 

“What was in the bunch ?” 

“Four steers, a Pot-Hook-S bull, five cows and this calf. 
There were three Five-Bar cows, one Diamond-and-a-IIalf 
apd one Cross-Triangle. The calf went to the Cross-Triangle 
cow every time. And, besides, he is marked just like his 
mother. I saw her again this afternoon while we were work¬ 
ing the cattle.” 

Phil nodded. “I know her.” 

Jim Eeid was watching Patches keenly, with a quiet look 
now and theu at Nick. 

The cowboys were murmuring among themselves. 

“Pretty good work for a tenderfoot!” 

“Tenderfoot, hell!” 

“They’ve got Nick this trip.” 

“Got nothin’! Can’t you see it’s a frame-up ?” 

Phil spoke to Nick. “Well, are satisfied? Will you 
vent your brand ?” 


193 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The big man’s face was distorted with passion. “Vent 
nothin’,” he roared. “On the word of a damned sneakin’ 
tenderfoot! I—” 

He stopped, as Patches, before Phil could check the 
movement, pushed close to his side. 

In the sudden stillness the new man’s cool, deliberate 
voice sounded clearly. “I am positive that you made a mis¬ 
take when you put your iron on that calf, Mr. Cambert. 
And,” he added slowly, as though with the kindest possible 
intention, “I am sure that you can safely take my word for 
it without further question.” 

For a moment Nick glared at Patches, speechless. Then, 
to the amazement of every cowboy in the corral, the big man 
mumbled a surly something, and took down his riata to rope 
the calf and disclaim his ownership of the animal. 

Jim Reid shook his head in puzzled doubt. 

The cowboys were clearly divided. 

“He’s too good a hand for a tenderfoot,” argued one; 
“carried that off like an old-timer.” 

“ ’Tain’t like Nick to lay down so easy for anybody,” 
added another. 

“Nick’s on to something about Mr. Patches that we ain’t 
next to,” insisted a third. 

“Or else we’re all bein’ strung for a bunch of suckers,” 
offered still another. 

“You boys just hold your horses, an’ ride easy,” said 
Curly. “My money’s still on Honorable Patches.” 

And Bob added his loyal support with his cheerful “Me, 
too!” 


194 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“It all looked straight enough,” Jim Keid admitted to 
the Dean that evening, “but I can’t get away from the notion 
that there was some sort of an understanding between your 
man an’ that damned Tailholt Mountain thief. It looked like 
it was all too quiet an’ easy somehow; like it had been planned 
beforehand.” 

The Dean laughingly told his neighbor that he was right; 
that there was an understanding between Patches and Nick, 
and then explained by relating how Patches had met the 
Tailholt Mountain men that day at the spring. 

When the Dean had finished the big cowman asked sev¬ 
eral very suggestive questions. How did the Dean know 
that Patches’ story was anything more than a cleverly ar¬ 
ranged tale, invented for the express purpose of allaying any 
suspicion as to his true relationship with Nick ? If Patches’ 
character was so far above suspicion, why did he always 
dodge any talk that might touch his past? Was it necessary 
or usual for men to keep so close-mouthed about themselves ? 
What did the Dean, or anyone else, for that matter, really 
know about this man who had appeared so strangely from 
nowhere, and had given a name even that was so plainly 
a ridiculous invention? The Dean must remember that the 
suspicion as to the source of Nick’s too rapidly increasing 
herds had, so far, been directed wholly against Nick himself, 
and that the owner of the Four-Bar-M iron was not altogether 
a fool. It was quite time, Keid argued, for Nick to cease his 
personal activities, and to trust the actual work of branding 
to some confederate whose movements would not be so closely 
questioned. In short, Keid had been expecting some stranger 

195 




WHEN" A MAN’S A MAN 


to seek a job with some of the ranches that were in a position 
to contribute to the Tailholt Mountain outfit, and, for his 
part, he would await developments before becoming too en¬ 
thusiastic over Honorable Patches. 

All of which the good Dean found very hard to answer. 

“But look here, Jim,” he protested, “don’t you go rnakin’ < 
it unpleasant for the boy. Whatever you think, you don’t 
know any more than the rest of us. If we’re guessin’ on one 
side, you’re guessin’ on the other. I admit that what you 
say sounds reasonable; but, hang it, I like Patches. As for 
his name—well-^-we didn’t use to go so much on names, in 
this country, you know. The boy may have some good reason 
for not talkin’ about himself. Just give him a square chance; 
don’t put no burrs under his saddle blanket—that’s all I’m 
askin’.” 

Jim laughed. The speech was so characteristic of the 
Dean, and Jim Reid loved his old friend and neighbor, as all 
men did, for being, as was commonly said, “so easy.” 

“Don’t worry, Will,” he answered. “I’m not goin’ to 
start anything. If I should happen to be right about Mr. 
Honorable Patches, he’s exactly where we want him. I pro¬ 
pose to keep my eye on him, that’s all. And I think you an’ 
Phil had better do the same.” 



196 




geous 


S the fall rodeo swept oh its way over the wide 
ranges, the last reluctant bits of summer passed, 
and hints of the coming winter began to appear. 
The yellow glory of the goldenrod, and the gor- 
banks of color on sunflower flats faded to earthy 
russet and brown; the white cups of the Jimson weed were 
broken and lost; the dainty pepper-grass, the thin-leafed 
grama-grass, and‘ the heavier bladed bear-grass of the great 
pasture lands were dry and tawny; and the broom-Weed that 
had tufted the rolling hills with brighter green, at the touch 
of the first frost, turned a dull and somber gray; while the 
varied beauties of the valley meadows became even as the 
dead and withered leaves of the Dean’s walnut trees that, in 
falling, left the widespread limbs and branches so bare. 

Then the rodeo and the shipping were over; the weeks of 
the late fall range riding were past—and it was winter. 

From skyline to skyline the world was white, save for the 
dark pines upon the mountain sides, the brighter cedars and 
jur ipers upon the hills and ridges, and the living green of the 

197 




























WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


oak brush, that, when all else was covered with snow, gave the 
cattle their winter feed. 

More than ever, now, with the passing of the summer and 
fall, Kitty longed for the stirring life that, in some measure, 
had won her from the scenes of her home and from her home¬ 
land friends. The young woman’s friendship with Patches— 
made easy by the fact that the Baldwins had taken him so 
wholly into their hearts—served to keep alive her memories 
of that world to which she was sure he belonged, and such 
memories did not tend to make Kitty more contented and 
happy in Williamson Valley. 

Toward Phil, Kitty was unchanged. Many times her 
heart called for him so insistently that she wished she had 
never learned to know any life other than that life to which 
they had both been born. If only she had not spent those 
years away from home—she often told herself—it would all 
have been so different. She could have been happy with Phil 
—very happy—if only she had remained in his world. But 
now—now she was afraid—afraid for him as well as for her¬ 
self. Her friendship with Patches had, in so many ways, 
emphasized the things that stood between her and the man 
whom, had it not been for her education, she would have 
accepted so gladly as her mate. 

Many times when the three were together, and Kitty had 
led the talk far from the life with which the cowboy was 
familiar, the young woman was forced, against the wish o^ 
her heart, to make comparisons. Kitty did not understand 
that Phil—unaccustomed to speaking of things outside his 


198 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


work and the life interests of his associates, and timid always 
in expressing his own thoughts—found it very hard to reveal 
the real wealth of his mind to her when she assumed so 
readily that he knew nothing beyond his horses and cattle. 
But Patches, to whom Phil had learned to speak with little 
reserve, understood. And, knowing that the wall which the 
girl felt separated her from the cowboy was built almost 
wholly of her own assumptions, Patches never lost an oppor¬ 
tunity to help the young woman to a fuller acquaintance with 
the man whom she thought she had known since childhood. 

During the long winter months, many an evening at the 
Cross-Triangle, at the Reid home, or, perhaps, at some neigh¬ 
borhood party or dance, afforded Kitty opportunities for a 
fuller understanding of Phil, but resulted only in establish¬ 
ing a closer friendship with Patches. 

Then came the spring. 

The snow melted; the rains fell; the washes and creek 
channels were filled with roaring floods; hill and ridge and 
mountain slope and mesa awoke to the new life that was 
swelling in every branch and leaf and blade; the beauties of 
the valley meadow appeared again in fresh and fragrant love¬ 
liness ; while from fence-post and bush and grassy bank and 
new-leaved tree the larks and mocking birds and doves voiced 
their glad return. 

And, with the spring, came a guest to the Cross-Triangle 
Ranch—another stranger. 

Patches had been riding the drift fence, and, as he made 
his way toward the home ranch, in the late afternoon, he 


199 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


looked a very different man from the Patches who, several 
months before, had been rescued by Kitty from a humiliating 
experience with that same fence. 

The fact that he was now riding Stranger, the big bay 
with the blazed face, more than anything else, perhaps, 
marked the change that had come to the man whom the horse 
had so viciously tested, on that day when they began together 
their education and work on the Cross-Triangle Ranch. 

No one meeting the cowboy, who handled his powerful 
and wild spirited mount with such easy confidence and skill, 
would have identified him with the white-faced, well-tailored 
gentleman whom Phil had met on the Divide. The months 
of active outdoor life had given his tall body a lithe and 
supple strength that was revealed in his every movement, 
while wind and sun had stained his skin that deep tan which 
marks those who must face the elements every waking hour. 
From tinkling bridle chain and jingling spur, to the coiled 
riata, his equipment showed the unmistakable marks of use. 
His fringed chaps, shaped, by many a day in the saddle, to 
his long legs, expressed experience, while his broad hat, 
soiled by sweat and dust, had acquired individuality, and his 
very jumper—once blue but now faded and patched—dis¬ 
claimed the tenderfoot. 

Riding for a little way along the top of the ridge that 
forms the western edge of the valley, Patches looked down 
upon the red roofs of the buildings of the home ranch, and 
smiled as he thought of the welcome that awaited him there 
at the close of his day’s work. The Dean and Stella, with 


200 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Little Billy, and Phil, and the others of the home circle, had 
grown very dear to this strong man of whom they still knew 
nothing; and great as was the change in his outward appear¬ 
ance and manner, the man himself knew that there were other 
changes as great. Honorable Patches had not only acquired 
a name and a profession, but in acquiring them he had gained 
something of much greater worth to himself. And so he was 
grateful to those who, taking him on trust, had helped him 
more than they knew. 

He had left the ridge, and was half way across the flat 
toward the corrals, when Little Billy, spurring old Sheep in 
desperate energy, rode wildly out to meet him. 

As the lad approached, he greeted his big friend with 
shrill, boyish shouts, and Patches answered with a cowboy 
yell which did credit to his training, while Stranger, with a 
wild, preliminary bound into the air, proceeded, with many 
weird contortions, to give an exhibition which fairly ex¬ 
pressed his sentiments. 

Little Billy grinned with delight. “Yip! Yip! Yee-e-e I” 
he shrilled, for Stranger’s benefit. And then, as the big horse 
continued his manifestations, the lad added the cowboy’s en¬ 
couraging admonition to the rider. “Stay with him, Patches! 
Stay with him!” 

Patches laughingly stayed with him. “What you aimin’ 
to do, pardner”—he asked good-naturedly, when Stranger at 
last consented to keep two feet on the ground at the same 
time—“tryin’ to get me piled ?” 

“Shucks!” retorted the youngster admiringly. “I don’t 


201 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


reckon anything could pile you, now. I come out to tell you 
that we got company,” he added, as, side by side, they rode 
on toward the corrals. 

Patches was properly surprised. “Company!” he ex¬ 
claimed. 

Little Billy grinned proudly. “Yep. He’s a man—from 
way back East somewhere. Uncle Will brought him out from 
town. They got here just after dinner. I don’t guess he’s 
ever seen a ranch before. Gee! but won’t we have fun with 
him!” 

Patches face was grave as he listened. “How do you 
know he is from the East, Billy?” he asked, concealing his 
anxious interest with a smile at his little comrade. 

“Heard Uncle Will tell Phil and Kitty.” 

“Oh, Kitty is at the house, too, is she ?” 

Billy giggled. “She an’ Phil’s been off somewheres ridin’ 
together most all day; they just got back a while ago. They 
was talkin’ with the company when I left. Phil saw you 
when you was back there on the ridge, an’ I come on out to 
tell you.” 

Phil and Kitty were walking toward their horses, which 
were standing near the corral fence, as Patches and Little 
Billy came through the gate. 

The boy dropped from his saddle, and ran on into the 
house to tell his Aunt Stella that Patches had come, leaving 
Sheep to be looked after by whoever volunteered for the ser¬ 
vice. It was one of Little Billy’s humiliations that he was 
*ot yet tall enough to saddle or bridle his own horse, and the 


202 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


men tactfully saw to it that his mount was always ready in 
the morning, and properly released at night, without any 
embarrassing comments on the subject. 

Patches checked his horse, and without dismounting 
greeted his friends. “You’re not going?” he said to Kitty, 
with a note of protest in his voice. “I haven’t seen you for 
a week. It’s not fair for Phil to take advantage of his posi¬ 
tion and send me off somewhere alone while he spends his 
time riding over the country with you.” 

They laughed up at him as he sat there on the big bay, hat 
in hand, looking down into their upturned faces with the inti¬ 
mate, friendly interest of an older brother. 

Patches noticed that Kitty’s eyes were bright with excite¬ 
ment, and that Phil’s were twinkling with suppressed merri¬ 
ment. 

“I must go, Patches,” said the young woman. “I ought 
to have gone two hours ago; but I was so interested that the 
time slipped away before I realized.” 

“We have company,” explained Phil, looking at Patches 
and deliberately closing one eye—the one that Kitty could 
not see. “A distinguished guest, if you please. I’ll loan 
you a clean shirt for supper; that is, if mother lets you eat 
at the same table with him.” 

“Phil, how can you!” protested Kitty. 

The two men laughed, but Phil fancied that there was a 
hint of anxiety in Patches’ face, as the man on the horse 
said, “Little Billy broke the news to me. Who is he ?” 

“A friend of Judge Morris in Prescott,” answered Phil. 


203 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“The Judge asked Uncle Will to take him on the ranch for 
a while. He and the Judge were—” 

Kitty interrupted with enthusiasm. “It is Professor 
Parkhill, Patches, the famous professor of aesthetics, you 
know: Everard Charles Parkhill. And he’s going to spend 
the summer in Williamson Valley! Isn’t it wonderful!” 

Phil saw a look of relief in his friend’s face as Patches 
answered Kitty with sympathetic interest. “It certainly 
will be a great pleasure, Miss Peid, especially for you, to have 
one so distinguished for his scholarship in the neighborhood. 
Is Professor Parkhill visiting Arizona for his health ?” 

Something in Patches’ voice caused Phil to turn hastily 
aside. 

But Kitty, who was thinking how perfectly Patches under¬ 
stood her, noticed nothing in his grave tones save his usual 
courteous deference. 

“Partly because of his health,” she answered, “but he is 
going to prepare a series of lectures, I understand. He says 
that in the crude and uncultivated mentalities of our—” 

“Here he is now,” interrupted Phil, as the distinguished 
guest of the Cross-Triangle appeared, coming slowly toward 
them. 

Professor Everard Charles Parkhill looked the part to 
which, from his birth, he had been assigned by his over¬ 
cultured parents. His slender body, with its narrow shoul¬ 
ders and sunken chest, frail as it was, seemed almost too 
heavy for his feeble legs. His thin face, bloodless and sallow, 
with a sparse, daintily trimmed beard and weak watery eyes, 


204 


WHEN’ A MAN’S A MAN 


was characterized by a solemn and portentous gravity, as 
though, realizing fully the profound importance of his mis¬ 
sion in life, he could permit no trivial thought to enter his 
bald, domelike head. One knew instinctively that in all the 
forty-five or fifty years of his little life no happiness or joy 
that had not been scientifically sterilized and certified had 
ever been permitted to stain his super-aesthetic soul. 

As he came forward, he gazed at the long-limbed man on 
the big hay horse with a curious eagerness, as though he were 
considering a strange and interesting creature that could 
scarcely be held to belong to the human race. 

“Professor Parkhill,” said Phil coolly, “you were saying 
that you had never seen a genuine cowboy in his native haunt. 
Permit me to introduce a typical specimen, Mr. Honorable 
Patches. Patches, this is Professor Parkhill.” 

“Phil,” murmured Kitty, “how can you?” 

The Professor was gazing at Patches as though fascinated. 
And Patches, his weather-beaten face as grave as the face of 
a wooden Indian, stared back at the Professor with a blank, 
open-mouthed and wild-eyed expression of rustic wonder that 
convulsed Phil and made Kitty turn away to hide a smile. 

“Howdy! Proud to meet up with you, mister,” drawled 
the typical specimen of the genus cowboy. And then, as 
though suddenly remembering his manners, he leaped to the 
ground and strode awkwardly forward, one hand outstretched 
in greeting, the other holding fast to Stranger’s bridle rein, 
while the horse danced and plunged about with reckless indif¬ 
ference to the polite intentions of his master. 


205 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The Professor backed fearfully away from the dangerous- 
looking horse and the equally formidable-appearing cowboy. 
Whereat Patches addressed Stranger with a roar of savage 
wrath. 

“Whoa! You consarned, square-headed, stiff-legged, 
squint-eyed, lop-eared, four-flusher, you. Whoa, I tell you! 
Cain’t yoq see I’m a-wantin’ to shake hands with this here 
man what the boss has interduced me to ?” 

Phil nearly choked. Kitty was looking unutterable things. 
They did not know tl^at Patches was suffering from a reac¬ 
tion caused by the discovery that he had never before met 
Professor Parkhill. 

“You see, mister,” he explained gravely, advancing again 
with Stranger following nervously, “this here fool horse ain’t 
used to strangers, no how, ’specially them as don’t look, as 
you might say, just natural like.” He finished with a sheep¬ 
ish grin, as he grasped the visitor’s soft little hand and 
pumped it up and down with virile energy. Then, staring 
with bucolic wonder at the distinguished representative of 
the highest culture, he asked, “Be you an honest-to-God pro¬ 
fessor? I’ve heard about such, but I ain’t never seen one 
before.” 

The little man replied hurriedly, but with timid pride, 
“Certainly, sir; yes, certainly.” 

“You be!” exclaimed the cowboy, as though overcome by 
his nearness to such dignity. “Excuse me askin’, but if you 
don’t mind, now—what be you professor of ?” 

The other answered with more courage, as though his 
soul found strength in the very word: “Aesthetics.” 


206 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The cowboy’s jaw dropped, his mouth opened in gaping 
awe, and he looked from the professor to Phil and Kitty, 
as if silently appealing to them to verify this startling thing 
which he had heard. “You don’t say!” he murmured at last 
in innocent admiration. “Well, now, to think of a little feller 
like you a-bein’ all that! But jest what be them there 
esteticks what you’re professor of—if you don’t mind my 
askin’ ?” 

The distinguished scholar answered promptly, in his best 
platform voice, “The science or doctrine of the nature of 
beauty and of judgments of tastes.” 

At this, Stranger, with a snort of fear, stood straight up 
on his hind legs, and Professor Parkhill scuttled to a position 
of safety behind Phil. 

“Excuse me, folks,” said Patches. “I’m just naturally 
obliged to ’tend to this here thing what thinks he’s a hoss. 
Come along, you ornery, pigeon-toed, knock-kneed, sway- 
backed, wooly-haired excuse, you. You ain’t got no more 
manners ’n a measly coyote.” 

The famous professor of aesthetics stood with Phil and 
Kitty watching Patches as that gentleman relieved the danc¬ 
ing bay of the saddle, and led him away through the corrals 
to the gate leading into the meadow pasture. 

“I beg pardon,” murmured the visitor in his thin, little 
voice, “but what did I understand you to say is the fellow’s 
name ?” 

“Patches; Honorable Patches,” answered Phil. 

“How strange! How extraordinarily strange! I should 
be very interested tc know something of his ancestry, and, 

207 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

if possible, to trace the origin of such a peculiar name.” 

Phil replied with exaggerated concern. “For heaven’s 
sake, sir, don’t say anything about the man’s name in his 
hearing.” 

. “He—he is dangerous, you mean ?” 

“He is, if he thinks anyone is making light of his name. 
You should ask some of the boys who have tried it.” 

“But I—I assure you, Mr. Acton, I had no thought of 
ridicule—far from it. Oh, very far from it.” 

Kitty was obliged to turn away. She arrived at the corral 
in time to meet Patches, who was returning. 

“You ought to be ashamed,” she scolded. But in spite of 
herself her eyes were laughing. 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Patches meekly, hat in hand. 

“How could you do such a thing?” she demanded. 

“How could I help doing it ?” 

“How could you help it ?” 

“Yes. You saw how he looked at me. Keally, Miss 
Reid, I couldn’t bear to disappoint him so cruelly. Honestly, 
now, wasn’t I exactly what he expected me to be? I think 
you should compliment me. Didn’t I do it very well ?” 

“But, he’ll think you’re nothing but a cowboy,” she 
protested. 

“Fine!” retorted Patches, quickly. “I thank you, Miss 
Reid; that is really the most satisfactory compliment I have 
ever received.” 

“You’re mocking me now,” said Kitty, puzzled by his 
manner. 


208 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Indeed, I am not. I am very serious,” he returned. 
“But here he comes again. With your gracious permission. 
T ’ll make my exit. Please don’t explain to the professor. It 
would humiliate me, and think how it would shock and dis¬ 
appoint him!” 

Lifting his saddle from the ground and starting toward 
the shed, he said in a louder tone, “Sure, I won’t ferget, 
Miss Kitty; an’ you kin tell your paw that there baldfaced 
steer o’ his’n, what give us the slip last rodeo time, is over 
in our big pasture. I sure seen him thar to-day.” 

During the days immediately following that first meeting.; 
Kitty passed many hours with Professor Parkhill. Phil 
**u.d his cowboys were busy preparing for the spring rodeo. 
Mrs. Baldwin was wholly occupied with ministering to the 
animal comforts of her earthly household. And the Dean, 
always courteous and kind to his guest, managed, neverthe¬ 
less, to think of some pressing business that demanded his 
immediate and personal attention whenever the visitor sought 
to engage him in conversation. The professor, quite naturally 
holding the cattleman to be but a rude, illiterate and wholly 
materialistic creature, but little superior in intellectual and 
spiritual powers to his own beasts, sought merely to investi¬ 
gate the Dean’s mental works, with as little regard for the 
Dean’s feelings as a biologist would show toward a bug. The 
Dean confided to Phil and Patches, one day when he had 
escaped to the blacksmith shop where the men were shoein 
their horses, that the professor was harmlessly insane. “Just 
think,” he exploded, “of the poor, little fool livin’ in Chicago 


209 


WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 

for three years, an' never once goin' out to the stockvarda 
even!" 

It remained, therefore, for Kitty—the only worshiper 
of the professor's gods in Williamson Valley—to supply that 
companionship which seems so necessary even to those whose 
souls are so far removed from material wants. In short, as 
Little Billy put it, with a boy's irreverence, “Kitty rode herd 
on the professor." And, strangely enough to them all, Kitty 
seemed to like the job. 

Either because her friendship with Patches—which had 
come to mean a great deal to Kitty—outweighed her respect 
and admiration for the distinguished object of his fun, or 
because she waited for some opportunity to make the revela¬ 
tion a punishment to the offender, the young woman did not 
betray the real character of the cowboy to the stranger. And 
the professor, thanks to Phil’s warning, not only refrained 
from investigating the name of Patches, but carefully avoided 
Patches himself. In the meantime, the “typical specimen" 
was forced to take a small part in the table talk lest he betray 
himself. So marked was this that Mrs. Baldwin one day, 
not understanding, openly chided him for being so “glum." 
Whereupon the Dean—to whom Phil had thoughtfully 
explained—teased the deceiver unmercifully, with many 
laughingly alleged reasons for his “grouch," while Curly and 
Bob, attributing their comrade's manner to the embarrassing 
presence of the stranger, grinned sympathetically; and the 
professor himself—unconsciously agreeing with the cowboys 
-—with kindly condescension tried to make the victim of his 


210 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


august superiority as much at ease as possible; which nat¬ 
urally, for the Dean and Phil, added not a little to the 
situation. 

Then the spring rodeo took the men far from the home 
ranch, and for several weeks the distinguished guest of the 
Cross-Triangle was left almost wholly to the guardianship 
of the young woman who lived on the other side of the big 
meadows. 

It was the last day of the rodeo, when Phil rode to the 
home ranch, late in the afternoon, to consult with the Dean 
about the shipping. Patches and the cowboys who were to 
help in the long drive to the railroad were at Toohey with 
the cattle. While the cowboys were finishing their early 
breakfast the next morning, the foreman returned, and 
Patches knew, almost before Phil spoke, that something had 
happened. They shouted their greetings as he approached, 
but he had no smile for their cheery reception, nor did he 
answer, even, until he had ridden close to the group about 
the camp fire. Then, with a short “momm’, boys,” he dis¬ 
mounted and stood with the bridle reins in his hand. 

At his manner a hush fell over the little company, and 
they watched him curiously. 

“No breakfast, Sam,” he said, shortly, to the Chinaman. 
“Just a cup of coffee.” Then to the cowboys, “You fellows 
saddle up and get that bunch of cattle to moving. We ? ll 
load at Skull Valley.” 

Sam brought his coffee and he drank it as he stood, while 
the men hurriedly departed for their horses. Patches, the 


211 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


last to go, paused a moment, as though to speak, but Phil 
prevented him with a gruff order. “Get a move on you, 
Patches. Those cars will be there long before we are.” 

And Patches, seeing the man’s face dark and drawn with 
pain, moved away without a word. 

“Great snakes,” softly ejaculated Curly a few moments 
later, as Patches stooped to take his saddle from where it 
lay on the ground beside Curly’s. “What do you reckon’s 
eatin’ the boss ? Him an’ the Dean couldn’t ’a’ mixed it last 
night, could they? Do you reckon the Dean crawled him 
about somethin’ ?” 

Patches shook his head with a “Search me, pardner,” as 
he turned to his horse. 

“Somethin’s happened sure,” muttered the other, busy 
with his saddle blanket. “Sufferin’ cats! but I lelt like he’d 
poured a bucket of ice water down my neck!” He drew the 
cinch tight with a vigorous jerk that brought a grunt of 
protest from his mount. “That's right,” he continued, 
addressing the horse, “hump yourself, an’ swell up and grunt, 
damn you; you ought to be thankin’ God that you ain’t 
nothin’ but a boss, nohow, with no feelin’ ’cept what’s in 
your belly.” He dropped the heavy stirrup with a vicious 
slap, and swung to his seat. “If Phil’s a-goin’ to keep up 
the way he’s startin’, we’ll sure have a pleasant little ol’ ride 
to Skull Valley. Oh, Lord! but I wisht I was a professor 
of them there exteticks, or somethin’ nice and gentle like, jest 
for to-day, anyhow.” 

Patches laughed. “Think you could qualify, Curly ?” 

The cowboy grinned as they rode off together. “So far 


212 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


as I’ve noticed the main part of the work, I could. The 
shade of them walnut trees at the home ranch, or the Pot- 
Hook-S front porch, an’ a nice easy rockin’ chair with fat 
cushions, or mebby the buckboard onct in a while, with 
Kitty to do the drivin’— Say, this has sure been some little 
ol’ rodeo, ain’t it ? I ain’t got a hoss in my string that can 
more’n stand up, an’ honest to God, Patches, I’m jest corns 
all over. How’s your saddle feel, this mornin’ ?” 

"It’s got corns, too,” admitted Patches. “But there's 
Phil; we’d better he riding.” 

All that day Phil kept to himself, speaking to his com¬ 
panions only when speech could not be avoided, and then 
with the fewest possible words. That night, he left the com¬ 
pany as soon as he had finished his supper, and went off 
somewhere alone, and Patches heard him finding his bed, 
long after the other members of the outfit were sound asleep. 
And the following day, through the trying work of loading 
the cattle, the young foreman was so little like himself that, 
had it not been that his men were nearly all old-time, boy¬ 
hood friends who had known him all his life, there would 
surely have been a mutiny. 

It was late in the afternoon, when the last reluctant steer 
was prodded and pushed up the timbered runway from the 
pens, and crow T ded into the car. Curly and Bob were going 
with the cattle train. The others would remain at Skull 
Valley until morning, when they would start for their widely 
separated homes. Phil announced that he was going to the 
home ranch that night. 

“You can make it home sometime to-morrow, Patches,” 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


he finished, when he had said good-by to the little group of 
men with whom he had lived and worked in closest intimacy 
through the long weeks of the rodeo. He reined his horse 
about, even as he spoke, to set out on his long ride. 

The Cross-Triangle foreman was beyond hearing of the 
cowboys when Patches overtook him. “Do you mind if I 
go back to the Cross-Triangle with you to-night, Phil ?” the 
cowboy asked quietly. 

Phil checked his horse and looked at his friend a moment 
without answering. Then, in a kindlier tone than he had 
used the past two days, he said, “You better stay here with 
the boys, and get your night’s rest, Patches. You have had 
a long hard spell of it in this rodeo, and yesterday and 
to-day have not been exactly easy. Shipping is always hell, 
even when everybody is in a good humor,” he smiled grimly. 

“If you do not object, I would really like to go,” said 
Patches simply. 

“But your horse is as tired as you ought to be,” pro¬ 
tested Phil. 

“I’m riding Stranger, you know,” the other answered. 

To which Phil replied tersely, “Let’s be riding, then.” 

The cowboys, who had been watching the two men, looked 
at each other in, amazement as Phil and Patches rode away 
together. 

“Well, what do you make of that ?” exclaimed one. 

“Looks like Honorable Patches was next,” commented 
another. 

“Us old-timers ain’t in it when it comes to associatin’ 
with the boss,” offered a third. 

214 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“You shut up on that line,” came sharply from Curly. 
“Phil ain’t turnin’ us down for nobody. I reckon if Patches 
is fool enough to want to ride to the Cross-Triangle to-night 
Phil ain’t got no reason for stoppin’ him. If any of you 
punchers wants to make the ride, the way’s open, ain’t it?” 

“Now, don’t you go on the prod, too,” soothed the other. 
“We wasn’t meanin’ nothin’ agin Phil.” 

“Well, what’s the matter with Patches?” demanded the 
Cross-Triangle man, whose heart was sorely troubled by the 
mystery of his foreman’s mood. 

“Ain’t nobody said as there was anything the matter. 
Fact is, don’t nobody know that there is.” 

And for some reason Curly had no answer. 

“Don’t it jest naturally beat thunder the way he’s cot¬ 
toned up to that yellow dog of a Yavapai Joe?” mused 
another, encouraged by Curly’s silence. “Three or four of 
the boys told how they’d seen ’em together off an’ on, but I 
didn’t think nothin’ of it until I seen ’em myself when we 
was workin’ over at Tailholt. It was one evenin’ after supper. 
I went down to the corral to fix up that Pedro horse’s back, 
when I heard voices kind o’ low like. I stopped a minute, 
an’ then sort o’ eased along in the dark, an’ run right onto 
’em where they was a-settin’ in the door o’ the saddle room, 
cozy as you please. Yavapai sneaked away while I was 
gettin’ the lantern an’ lightin’ it, but Patches, he jest stayed 
an’ held the light for me while I fixed ol’ Pedro, jest as if 
nothin’ had happened.” 

“Well,” said Curly sarcastically, “what had happened ?” 

“I don’t know—nothin’—mebby.” 


215 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“If Patches was what some o’ you boys seem to think, 
do you reckon he’d be a-ridin’ for the Cross-Triangle?” 
demanded Curly. 

“He might, an’ he mightn’t,” retorted two or three at 
once. 

“Nobody can’t say nothin’ in a case like that until the 
show-down,” added one. “I don’t reckon the Dean knows 
any more than the rest of us.” 

“Unless Patches is what some of the other boys are 
guessin’,” said another. 

“Which means,” finished Curly, in a tone o± disgust, “that 
we’ve got to millin’ ’round the same old ring again. Come 
on, Bob; let’s see what they’ve got for supper. That engine’ll 
happen along directly, an’ we’ll be startin’ hungry.” 

Phil Acton was not ignorant of the different opinions 
that were held by the cattlemen regarding Honorable Patches. 
Nor, as the responsible foreman of the Cross-Triangle, could 
he remain indifferent to them. During those first months of 
Patches’ life on the ranch, vrhen the cowboy’s heart had so 
often been moved to pity for the stranger who had come to 
them apparently from isome painful crisis in his life, he had 
laughed at the suspicions of his old friends and associates. 
But as the months had passed, and Patches had so rapidly 
developed into a strong, self-reliant man, with a spirit of 
bold recklessness that was marked even among those hardy 
riders of the range, Phil forgot, in a measure, those char¬ 
acteristics that the stranger had shown at the beginning of 
their acquaintance. At the same time, the persistent sus- 


216 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


picions of the cattlemen, together with Patches’ curious, and 
in a way, secret interest in Yavapai Joe, could not but have 
a decided influence upon the young man who was responsible 
for the Dean’s property. 

It was inevitable, under the circumstances, that Phil’s 
attitude toward Patches should change, even as the character 
of Patches himself had changed. While the foreman’s man¬ 
ner of friendship and kindly regard remained, so far, un¬ 
altered, and while Phil still, in his heart, believed in his 
friend, and—as he would have said—“would continue to 
back his judgment until the show-down,” nevertheless that 
spirit of intimacy which had so marked those first days of 
their work together had gradually been lost to them. The 
cowboy no longer talked to his companion, as he had talked 
that day when they lay in the shade of the walnut tree at 
Toohey, and during the following days of their range riding. 
He no longer admit ted - h-k.friend inta his inner life, as he 
had done that day when he told Patches the story of the 
wild stallion. And Patches, feeling the change, and unable 
to understand the reason for it, waited patiently for the 
time when the cloud that had fallen between them should lift. 

So they rode together that night, homeward bound, at the 
end of the long, hard weeks of the rodeo, in the deepening 
gloom of the day’s passing, in the hushed stillness of the 
wild land, under the wide sky where the starry sentinel hosts 
were gathering for their ever-faithful watch. And as they 
rode, their stirrups often touching, each was alone with his 
own thoughts. Phil, still in the depth of his somber mood, 


217 


WHEN' A MAH’S A MAH 


brooded over his bitter trouble. Patches, sympathetically 
wondering, silently questioning, wished that he could help. 

There are times when a man’s very soul forces him to 
seek companionship. Alone in the night with this man for 
whom, even at that first moment of their meeting on the 
Divide, he had felt a strange sense of kinship, Phil found 
himself drifting far from the questions that had risen to 
mar the closeness of their intimacy. The work of the rodeo 
was over; his cowboy associates, with their suggestive talk, 
were far away. Under the influence of the long, dark miles 
of that night, and the silent presence of his companion, the 
young man, for the time being, was no longer the responsible 
foreman of the Cross-Triangle Panch. In all that vast and 
silent world there was, for Phil Acton, only himself, his 
trouble, and his friend. 

And so it came about that, little by little, the young man 
told Patches the story of his dream, and of^ow it was now 
shattered and broken. ^ 

Sometimes bitterly, as though he felt injustice; some¬ 
times harshly, as though in contempt for some weakness of 
his own; with sentences broken by the pain he strove to 
subdue, with halting words and long silences, Phil told of 
his plans for rebuilding the home of his boyhood, and of 
restoring the business that, through the generosity of his 
father, had been lost; of how, since his childhood almost, he 
had worked and saved to that end; and of his love for Kitty, 
which had been the very light of his dream, and without 
which for him there was no purpose in dreaming. And the 


218 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


man who rode so close beside him listened with a fuller 
understanding and a deeper sympathy than Phil knew. 

“And now/’ said Phil hopelessly, “it’s all over. I’ve 
sure come to the end of my string. Reid has put the outfit 
on the market. He’s going to sell out and quit. Uncle Will 
told me night before last when I went home to see about the 
shipping.” 

“Reid is going to sell!” exclaimed Patches; and there 
was a curious note of exultation in his voice which Phil did 
not hear. Neither did Phil see that his companion was 
smiling to himself under cover of the darkness. 

“It’s that damned Professor Parkhill that’s brought it 
about,” continued the cowboy bitterly. “Ever since Kitty 
came home from the East she has been discontented and dis¬ 
satisfied with ranch life. I was all right when she went 
away, but when she came back she discovered that I was 
nothing but a cow-puncher. She has been fair, though. She 
has tried to get back where she was before she left and I 
thought I would win her again in time. I was so sure of it 
that it never troubled me. You have seen how it was. And 
you have seen how she was always wanting the life that she 
had learned to want while she was away—the life that you 
came from, Patches. I have been mighty glad for your 
friendship with her, too, because I thought she would learn 
from you that a man could have all that is worth having in 
that life, and still be happy and contented here . And she 
would have learned, I am sure. She couldn’t help seeing it. 
**nt now that damned fool who knows no more of real 


219 


WHEY A MAH’S A MAH 


manhood than T do of his profession has spoiled it all.” 

“But Phil, I don’t understand. What has Parkhill to do 
with Reid’s selling out ?” 

“Why, don’t you see?” Phil returned savagely. “He’s 
the supreme representative of the highest highbrowed culture, 
isn’t he? He’s a lord high admiral, duke, or potentate of 
some sort, in the world of loftiest thought, isn’t he? He 
lives, moves and has his being in the lofty realms of the 
purely spiritual, doesn’t he? He’s cultured, and cultivated, 
and spiritualized, until he vibrates nothing hut pure soul— 
whatever that means—and he’s refined himself, and mental- 
disciplined himself, and soul-dominated himself, until there’s 
not an ounce of red blood left in his carcass. Get him 
between you and the sun, after what he calls a dinner, and 
you can see every material mouthful that he has disgraced 
himself by swallowing. He’s not human, I tell you; he’s 
only a kind of a he-ghost, and ought to be fed on sterilized 
moonbeams and pasteurized starlight.” 

“Amen!” said Patches solemnly, when Phil paused for 
lack of breath. “But, Phil, your eloquent characterization 
does not explain what the he-ghost has to do with the sale 
of the Pot-Hook-S outfit.” 

Phil’s voice again dropped into its hopeless. key as he 
answered. “You remember how, from the very first, Kitty 
—well—sort of worshiped him, don’t you ?” 

“You mean how she worshiped his aesthetic cult, don’t 
you ?” corrected Patches quietly. 

“I suppose that’s it,” responded Phil gloomily. “Well, 


220 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Uncle Will says that they have been together mighty near 
every day for the past three months, and that about half of 
the time they have been over at Kitty’s home. He has dis¬ 
covered, he says, that Kitty possesses a rare and wonderful 
capacity for absorbing the higher truths of the more purely 
intellectual and spiritual planes of life, and that she has a 
marvelously developed appreciation of those ideals of life 
which are so far removed from the base and material inter¬ 
ests and passions which belong to the mere animal existence 
of the common herd.” 

“Oh, hell!” groaned Patches. 

“Well, that’s what he told Uncle Will,” returned Phil 
stoutly. “And he has harped on that string so long, and 
yammered so much to Jim and to Kitty’s mother about the 
girl’s wonderful intellectuality, and what a record-breaking 
career she would have if only she had the opportunity, and 
what a shame, and a loss to the world it is for her to remain 
buried in these soul-dwarfing surroundings, that they have 
got to believing it themselves. You see, Kitty herself has 
in a way been getting them used to the idea that Williamson 
Valley isn’t much of a place, and that the cow business 
doesn’t rank very high among the best people. So Jim is 
going to sell out, and move away somewhere, where Kitty 
can have her career, and the boys can grow up to be some¬ 
thing better than low-down cow-punchers like you and me. 
Jim is able to retire anyway.” 

“Thanks, Phil,” said Patches quietly. 

“What for?” 


221 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Why, for including me in your class. I consider it a 
compliment, and”—he added, with a touch of his old self- 
mocking humor—“I think I know what I am saying—better, 
perhaps, than the he-ghost knows what he talks about.” 

“It may be that you do,” returned Phil wearily, “but 
you can see where it all puts me. The professor has sure 
got me down and hog-tied so tight that I can’t even think.” 

“Perhaps, and again, perhaps not,” returned Patches. 
“Reid hasn’t found a buyer for the outfit yet, has he ?” 

“Not yet, but they’ll come along fast enough.. The Pot- 
Hook-S Ranch is too well known for the sale to hang fire 
long.” 

The next day Phil seemed to slip back again, in his 
attitude toward Patches, to the temper of those last weeks 
of the rodeo. It was as though the young man—with his 
return to the home ranch and to the Dean and their talks 
and plans for the work—again put himself, his personal con¬ 
victions and his peculiar regard for Patches, aside, and 
became the unprejudiced foreman, careful for his employer’s 
interests. 

Patches very quickly, but without offense, found that the 
door, which his friend had opened in the long dark hours 
of that lonely night ride, had closed again; and, thinking 
that he understood, he made no attempt to force his way. 
But, for some reason, Patches appeared to be in an unusually 
happy frame of mind, and went singing and whistling about 
the corrals and buildings as though exceedingly well pleased 
with himself and with the world. 

The following day was Sunday. In the afternoon, 


222 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Patches was roaming about the premises, keeping at a safe 
distance from the walnut trees in front of the house, where 
the professor had cornered the Dean, thus punishing both 
Patches and his employer by preventing one of their long 
Sunday talks which they both so much enjoyed. Phil had 
gone off somewhere to be alone, and Mrs. Baldwin was read¬ 
ing aloud to Little Billy. Honorable Patches was left very 
much to himself. 

From the top of the little hill near the corrals, he looked 
across the meadow at exactly the right moment to see some 
one riding away from the neighboring ranch. He watched 
until he was certain that whoever it was was not coming to 
the Cross-Triangle—at least, not by way of the meadow 
lane. Then, smiling to himself, he went to the big barn and 
saddled a. horse—there are always two or three that are not 
i turned out in the pasture—and in a few minutes was riding 
leisurely away on the Simmons road, along the western edge 
of the valley. An hour later he met Kitty Reid, who was 
on her way from Simmons to the Cross-Triangle. 

The young woman was sincerely glad to meet him. 

“But you were going to Simmons, were you not?” she 
asked, as he reined his horse about to ride with her. 

“To be truthful, I was going to Simmons if I met anyone 
l else, or if I had not met you,” he answered. Then, at her 
puzzled look, he explained, “I saw someone leave your house, 
and guessed that it was you. I guessed, too, that you would 
be coming this way.” 

“And you actually rode out to meet me ?” 

“Actually,” he smiled. 


223 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


They chatted about the rodeo, and the news of the coun¬ 
tryside—for it had been several weeks since they had met— 
and so reached the point of the last ridge before you come 
to the ranch. Then Patches asked, “May we ride over there 
on the ridge, and sit for a while in the shade of that old 
cedar, for a little talk? It’s early yet, and it’s been ages 
since we had a pow-wow.” 

Reaching the point which Patches had chosen, they left 
their horses and made themselves comfortable on the brov 
of the hill, overlooking the wide valley meadow and the 
ranches. 

“And now,” said Kitty, looking at him curiously, “what’.‘ 
the talk, Mr. Honorable Patches ?” 

“Just you,” said Patches, gravely. 

“Me?” 

“Your own charming self,” he returned. 

“But, please, good sir, what have I done?” she asked. 
“Or, perhaps, it’s what have I not done?” 

“Or perhaps,” he retorted, “it’s what you are going to 
do.” 

“Oh!” 

“Miss Reid, 1 am going to ask you a favor—a grea' 
tavor.” 

“Yes ?” 

“You have known me now almost a year.” 

“Yes.” 

“And, yet, to be exact, you do not know me at all.” 

She did not answer, but looked at him steadily. 


224 


WHEX A MAX’S A MAX 


“And that, in a way/ 7 he continued, “makes it easy for 
me to ask the favor; that is, if you feel that you can trust 
me ever so little—trust me, I mean, to the extent of believing 
me sincere. 77 

“I know that you are sincere, Patches/ 7 she answered, 
gravely. 

“Thank you/ 7 he returned. Then he said gently, “I want 
you to let me talk to you about what is most emphatically 
none of my business. I want you to let me ask you imper¬ 
tinent questions. I want you to talk to me about 77 —he 
hesitated; then finished with meaning—“about your career. 77 

She felt his earnestness, and was big enough to under¬ 
stand, and be grateful for the spirit that prompted his words. 

“Why, Patches/ 7 she cried, “after all that your friend¬ 
ship has meant to me, these past months, I could not think 
any question that you would ask impertinent. Surely yo^ 
know that, don’t you ?” 

“I hoped that you would feel that way. And I know 
that I would give five years of my life if I knew how to 
convince you of the truth which I have learned from my 
own bitter experience, and save you from—from yourself. 77 

She could not mistake his earnestness and in spite of 
herself the man’s intense feeling moved her deeply. 

“Save me from myself ?” she questioned. “What in the 
world do you mean, Patches?” 

“Is it true,” he asked, “that your father is offering the 
ranch for sale, and that you are going out of the Williamsou 
Valley life ?” 


on r 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Yes, but it is not such a sudden move as it seems. We 
have often talked about it at home—father and mother 
and I ” 

“But the move is to be made chiefly on your account, is 
it not ?” 

She flushed a little at this, but answered stoutly. “Yes. 
I suppose that is true. You see, being the only one in our 
family to have the advantages of—well—the advantages that 
I have had, it was natural that I should— Surely you have 
seen, Patches, how discontented and dissatisfied I have been 
with the life here! Why, until you came there was no one 
to whom I could talk, even—no one, I mean, who could 
understand.” 

“But what is it that you want, or expect to find, that 
you may not have right here ?” 

Then she told him all that he had expected to hear. Told 
him earnestly, passionately, of the life she craved, and of the 
sordid, commonplace narrowness and emptiness—as she saw 
it—of the life from which she sought to escape. And as she 
talked the man’s good heart v/as heavy with sadness and pity 
for her. 

“Oh, girl, girl,” he cried, when she had finished. “Can’t 
you—won’t you—understand? All that you seek is right 
here—everywhere about you—waiting for you to make it 
your own, and with it you may have here those greater things 
without which no life can be abundant and joyous. The 
culture and the intellectual life that is dependent upon mere 
environment is a crippled culture and a sickly life. The 


226 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


mind that cannot find its food for thought wherever it may 
be placed will never hobble very far on crutches of super¬ 
ficial cults and societies. You are leaving the substance, 
child, for the shadow. You are seeking the fads and fancies 
of shallow idlers, and turning your back upon eternal facts. 
You are following after silly fools who are chasing bubbles 
over the edge of God’s good world. Believe me, girl, I know 
—God! but I do know what that life, stripped of its tinseled 
and spangled show, means. Take the good grain, child, and 
let the husks go.” 

As the man spoke, Kitty watched him as though she were 
intently interested; but, in truth, her thoughts were more 
on the speaker than on what he said. 

“You are in earnest, aren’t you, Patches ?” she murmured 

softly. 

“I am,” he returned sharply, for he saw that she was not 
even considering what he had said. “I know how mistaken 
you are; I know what it will mean to you when you find 
how much you have lost and how little you have gained.” 

“And how am I mistaken ? Do I not know what I want ? 
Am I not better able than anyone else to say what satisfies 
me and what does not ?” 

“No,” he retorted, almost harshly, “you are not. You 
think it is the culture, as you call it, that you want; but if 
that were really it, you would not go. You would find it 
here. The greatest minds that the world has ever known 
you may have right here in your home, on your library table. 
And you may listen to their thoughts without being disturbed 


227 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


by the magpie chatterings of vain and shallow pretenders. 
You are attracted by the pretentious forms and manners of 
that life; you think that because a certain class of people, 
who have nothing else to do, talk a certain jargon, and pro¬ 
fess to follow certain teachers—who, nine times out of ten, 
are charlatans or fools—that they are the intellectual and 
spiritual leaders of the race. You are mistaking the very 
things that prevent intellectual and spiritual development for 
the things you think you want.” 

She did not answer his thought, but replied to his words. 
“And supposing I am mistaken, as you say. Still, I do not 
see why it should matter so to you.” 

He made a gesture of hopelessness and sat for a moment 
in silence. Then he said slowly, “I fear you will not ^under¬ 
stand, but did you ever hear the story of how ‘Wild Horse 
Phil’ earned his title ?” 

She laughed. “Why, of course. Everybody knows about 
that. Dear, foolish old Phil—I shall miss him dreadfully.” 

“Yes,” he said significantly, “you will miss him. The 
life you are going to does not produce Phil Actons.” 

“It produced an Honorable Patches,” she retorted slyly. 

“Indeed it did not ” he answered quickly. “It pro¬ 
duced—” He checked himself, as though fearing that he 
would say too much. 

“But what have Phil and his wild horse to do with the 
question?” she asked. 

“Nothing, I fear. Only I feel about your going away as 
Phil felt when he gave the wild horse its freedom.” 


228 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“I don’t think I understand,” she said, genuinely puzzled. 

“I said you would not,” he retorted bluntly, “and that’s 
why you are leaving all this.” His gesture indicated the 
vast sweep of country with old Granite Mountain in the 
distance. 

Then, with a nod and a look he indicated Professor 
Parkhill, who was walking toward them along the side of the 
ridge skirting the scattered cedar timber. “Here comes a 
product of the sort of culture to which you aspire. Behold 
the ideal manhood of your higher life! When the intel¬ 
lectual and spiritual life you so desire succeeds in producing 
racial fruit of that superior quality, it will have justified 
its existence—and will perish from the earth.” 

Even as Patches spoke, he saw something just beyond 
the approaching man that made him start as if to rise to 
his feet. 

It was the unmistakable face of Yavapai Joe, who, from 
behind an oak bush, was watching the professor. 

Patches, glancing at Kitty, saw that she had not noticed. 

Before the young woman could reply to her companion’s 
derisive remarks, the object which had prompted his com¬ 
ments arrived within speaking distance. 

“I trust I am not intruding,” began the professor, in his 
3 mall, thin voice. Then as Patches, his eyes still on that 
oak bush, stood up, the little man added, with hasty con¬ 
descension, “Keep your seat, my man; keep your seat. I 
assure you it is not my purpose to deprive you of Miss 
Reid’s company.” 


229 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Patches grinned. By that “my man” he knew that Kitty 
had not enlightened her teacher as to the “typical cowboy’s” 
real character. 

“That’s all right, perfessor,” he said awkwardly. “I just 
seen a maverick over yonder a-piece. I reckon I’d better 
mosey along an’ have a closer look at him. Me an’ Kitty 
here warn’t talkin’ nothin’ important, nohow. Just a gassin’ 
like. I reckon she’d ruther go on home with you, anyhow, 
an’ it’s all right with me.” 

“Maverick!” questioned the professor. “And what, may 
I ask, is a maverick ?” 

“Hit’s a critter what don’t belong to nobody,” answered 
Patches, moving toward his horse. 

At the same moment Kitty, who had risen, and was look¬ 
ing in the direction from which the professor had come, 
exclaimed, “Why, there’s Yavapai Joe, Patches. What is 
he doing here ?” 

She pointed, and the professor, looking, caught a glimpse 
of Joe’s back as the fellow was slinking over the ridge. 

“I reckon mebby he wants to see me ’bout somethin’ or 
other,” Patches returned, as he mounted his horse. “Any¬ 
way, I’m a-goin’ over that-a-way an’ see. So long!” 

Patches rode up to Joe just as the Tailholt Mountain man 
regained his horse on the other side of the ridge. 

“Hello, Joe!” said the Cross-Triangle rider, easily. 

The wretched outcast was so shaken and confused that he 
could scarcely find the stirrup with his foot, and his face was 
pale and twitching with excitement. He looked at Patches, 


230 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


wildly, but spoke in a sullen tone. “What’s he doin’ here ? 
What does he want ? How did he get to this country, any¬ 
how ?” 

Patches was amazed, but spoke calmly. “Whom do you 
mean, Joe ?” 

“I mean that man back there, Parkhill—Professor Park- 
hill. What’s he a-lookin’ for hangin’ ’round here ? You can 
tell him it ain’t no use—I—” He stopped suddenly, and 
with a characteristic look of cunning, turned away. 

Patches rode beside him for some distance, but nothing 
that he could say would persuade the wretched creature to 
explain. 

“Yes, I know you’re my friend, all right, Patches,” he 
answered. “You sure been mighty friendly ter me, an’ I 
ain’t fergettin’ it. But I ain’t a-tellin’ nothin’ to nobody, 
an’ it ain’t a-goin’ to do you no good to go askin’ him ’bout 
me, neither.” 

“I’m not going to ask Professor Parkhill anything, Joe,” 
said Patches shortly. 

“You ain’t?” 

“Certainly not; if you don’t want me to know. I’m not 
trying to find out about anything that’s none of my business.” 

Joe looked at him with a cunning leer. “Oh, you ain’t, 
ain’t you ? Nick ’lows that you’re sure—” Again he caught 
himself. “But I ain’t a-tellin’ nothin’ to nobody.” 

“Well, have I ever asked you to tell me anything?” 
demanded Patches. 

“No, you ain’t—that’s right—you sure been square with 


231 



WHEH A MAX’S A MAX 


me, Patches, an’ I ain’t fergettin’ it. Be you sure ’nuf my 
friend, Patches ? Honest-to-God, now, be you ?” 

His question was pitiful, and Patches assured the poor 
fellow that he had no wish to be anything but his friend, if 
only Yavapai Joe would accept his help. 

“Then,” said Joe pleadingly, “if you mean all that you 
been sayin’ about wantin’ to help me, you’ll do somethin’ fer 
me right now.” 

“What can I do, Joe?” 

“You kin promise me that you won’t say nothin’ to no¬ 
body ’bout me an’ him back there.” 

Patches, to -demonstrate his friendliness, answered with¬ 
out thought, “Certainly, I’ll promise that, Joe.” 

“You won’t tell nobody ?” 

“Ho, I won’t say a word.” 

The poor fellow’s face revealed his gratitude. “I’m 
obliged to you, Patches, I sure am, an’ I ain’t fergettin’ 
nothin’, either. You’re my friend, all right, an’ I’m your’n. 
I got to be a-hittin’ it up now. Xick’ll jest nachally gimme 
hell for bein’ gone so long.” 

“Good-by, Joe!” 

“So long, Patches! An’ don’t you get to thinkin’ that 
I’m fergettin’ how me an’ you is friends.” 

When Patches reviewed the incident, as he rode back to 
the ranch, he questioned if he had done right in promising 
Joe. But, after all, he reassured himself, he was under no 
obligation to interfere with what was clearly none of his 
business. He could not see that the matter in any possible 


232 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


way touched his employer’s interests. And, he reflected, he 
had already tried the useless experiment of meddling with 
other people’s affairs, and he did not care to repeat the 
experience. 

That evening Patches asked Phil’s permission to go to 
Prescott the next day. It would be the first time that he had 
been to town since his coming to the ranch and the foreman 
readily granted his request. 

A few minutes later as Phil passed through the kitchen, 
Mrs. Baldwin remarked, “I wonder what Patches is feeling 
so gay about. Ever since he got home from the rodeo he’s 
been singin’ an’ whistlin’ an’ grinnin’ to himself all the time. 
He went out to the corral just now as merry as a lark.” 

Phil laughed. “Anybody would be glad to get through 
with that rodeo, mother; besides, he is going to town to¬ 
morrow.” 

“He is ? Well, you mark my words, son, there’s somethin’ 
up to make him feel as good as he does.” 

And then, when Phil had gone on out into the yard, Pro¬ 
fessor Parkhill found him. 

“Mr. Acton,” began the guest timidly, “there is a little 
matter about which I feel I should speak to you.” 

“Very well, sir,” returned the cowboy. 

“I feel that it would be better for me to speak to you 
rather than to Mr. Baldwin, because, well, you are younger, 
and will, I am sure, understand more readily.” 

“All right; what is it, Professor ?” asked Phil encourag¬ 
ingly, wondering at the man’s manner. 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“Do you mind—ah—walking a little way down the 
road?” 

As they strolled out toward the gate to the meadow road, 
the professor continued: 

“I think I should tell you about your man Patches.” 

Phil looked at his companion sharply. “Well, what about 
him f” 

“I trust you will not misunderstand my interest, Mr. 
Acton, when I say that it also includes Miss Reid.” 

Phil stopped short. Instantly Mrs. Baldwin’s remark 
about Patches’ happiness, his own confession that he had 
given up all hope of winning Kitty, and the thought of the 
friendship which he had seen developing during the past 
months, with the realization that Patches belonged to that 
world to which Kitty aspired—all swept through his mind. 
He was looking at the man beside him so intently that the 
professor said again uneasily: 

“I trust, Mr. Acton, that you will understand.” 

Phil laughed shortly. “I think I do. But just the same 
you’d better explain. What about Patches and Miss Reid, 
sir?” 

The professor told how he had found them together that 
afternoon. 

“Oh, is that all ?” laughed Phil. 

“But surely, Mr. Acton, you do not think that a man of 
that fellow’s evident brutal instincts is a fit associate for a 
young woman of Miss Reid’s character and refinement.” 

“Perhaps not,” admitted Phil, still laughing, “but I guess 
Kitty can take care of herself.” 


234 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“I do not agree with you, sir,” said the other authori¬ 
tatively. “A young woman of Miss Reid’s—ah—spirituality 
and worldly inexperience must always be, to a certain extent, 
injured by contact with such illiterate, unrefined, and, I have 
no doubt, morally deficient characters.” 

“But, look here, Professor,” returned Phil, still grinning, 
“what do you expect me to do about it? I am not Kitty 
Reid’s guardian. Why don’t you talk to her yourself ?” 

“Really,” returned the little man, “I—there are reasons 
why I do not see my way clear to such a course. I had hoped 
that you might keep an eye on the fellow, and, if necessary, 
use your authority over him to prevent any such incidents in 
the future.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” answered Phil, thinking how the 
Dean would enjoy the joke. “But, look here; Kitty was with 
you when you got to the ranch. What became of Patches ? 
Run, did he, when you appeared on the scene?” 

“Oh, no; he went away with a—with a maverick.” 

“Went away with a maverick ? What, in heaven’s name, 
do you mean by that ?” 

“That’s what your man Patches said the fellow was. Miss 
Reid told me his name was Joe—Joe something.” 

Phil was not laughing now. The fun of the situation had 
vanished. 

“Was it Yavapai Joe ?” he demanded. 

“Yes, that was it. I am quite sure that was the name. 
He belongs at Tailend Mountain, I think Miss Reid said; 
you have such curious names in this country.” 

“And Patches went away with him, you say ?” 


235 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Yes, the fellow seemed to have been hiding in the bushes 
when we discovered him, and when Miss Reid asked what he 
was doing there jour man said that he had come to see him 
about something. They went away together, I believe.” 

As soon as he could escape from the professor, Phil went 
straight to Patches, who was in his room, reading. The man 
looked up with a welcoming smile as Phil entered, but as he 
saw the foreman’s face his smile vanished quickly, and he 
laid aside his book. 

“Patches,” said Phil abruptly, “what’s this talk of the 
professor’s about you and Yavapai Joe?” 

“I don’t know what the professor is talking,” Patches 
replied coldly, as though he did not exactly like the tone of 
Phil’s question. 

“He says that Joe was sneaking about in the brush over 
on the ridge wanting to see you about something,” returned 
Phil. 

“Joe was certainly over there on the ridge, and he may 
have wanted to see me; at any rate, I saw him.” 

“Well, I’ve got to ask you what sort of business you have 
with that Tailholt Mountain thief that makes it necessary for 
him to sneak around in the brush for a meeting with you. 
If he wants to see you, why doesn’t he come to the ranch, like 
a man ?” 

Honorable Patches looked the Dean’s foreman straight in 
the eyes, as he answered in a tone that he had never used 
before in speaking to Phil: “And I have to answer, sir, that 
my business with Yavapai Joe is entirely personal; that it 


236 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


has no relation whatever to your business as the foreman of 
this ranch. As to why Joe didn’t come to the house, you 
must ask him; I don’t know.” 

“You refuse to explain ?” demanded Phil. 

“I certainly refuse to discuss Joe Dry den’s private affairs 
I—that, so far as I can see, are of no importance to anyone 
but himself—with you or anyone else. Just as I should 
refuse to discuss any of your private affairs, with which I 
happened, by some chance, to be, in a way, familiar. I have 
made all the explanation necessary when I say that my busi¬ 
ness with him has nothing to do with your business. You 
have no right to ask me anything further.” 

“I have the right to fire you,” retorted Phil, angrily. 

Patches smiled, as he answered gently, “You have the 
right, Phil, but you won’t use it.” 

“And why not ?” 

“Because you are not that kind of a man, Phil Acton,” 
answered Patches slowly. “You know perfectly well that if 
you discharged me because of my friendship with poor 
Yavapai Joe, no ranch in this part of the country would give 
me a job. You are too honest yourself to condemn any man 
; on mere suspicion, and you are too much of a gentleman to 
idamn another simply because he, too, aspires to that dis- 
| tinction.” 

I “Very well, Patches,” Phil returned, with less heat, “but 
I want you to understand one thing; I am responsible for the 
Cross-Triangle property and there is no friendship in the 
world strong enough to influence me in the slightest degree 


237 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

when it comes to a question of Uncle Will’s interests. Do 
you get that ?” 

“I got that months ago, Phil.” 

Without another word, the Dean’s foreman left the room. 
Patches sat for some time considering the situation. And 
now and then his lips curled in that old, self-mocking smile; 
realizing that he was caught in the trap of circumstance, he 
found a curious humor in his predicament. 



jtR 


C . c 


238 








tHAPTER xm 

FRONTIER DAY. 

JGAIN" it was July. And, with the time of the 
cattlemen’s celebration of the Fourth at hand, riders 
from every part of the great western cow country 
assembled in Prescott for their annual contests. 
Texas and Montana, from Oklahoma and New 
Mexico and Wyoming, the cowboys came with their saddles 
and riatas to meet each other and the men of Arizona in 
friendly trials of strength and skill. From many a wild 
pasture, outlaw horses famous for their vicious, unsubdued 
spirits, and their fierce, untamed strength, were brought to 
match their wicked, unbroken wills against the cool, deter¬ 
mined courage of the riders. From the wide ranges, the 
steers that were to participate in the roping and bull-dogging 
contests were gathered and driven in. From many a ranch 
the fastest and best of the trained cow-horses were sent for 
the various cowboy races. And the little city, in its rocky, 
mile-high basin, upon which the higher surrounding moun¬ 
tains look so eadfastly down, again decked itself in gala 
colors, and opened wide its doors to welcome all who chose 
te come. 


239 










WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

Erom the Cross-Triangle and the neighboring ranches the 
cowboys, dressed in the best of their picturesque regalia, rode 
into the town, to witness and take part in the sports. With 
them rode Honorable Patches. 

And this was not the carefully groomed and immaculately 
attired gentleman who, in troubled spirit, had walked alone 
over that long, unfenced way a year before. This was not 
the timid, hesitating, shamefaced man at whom Phil Acton 
had laughed on the summit of the Divide. This was a man 
among men—a cowboy of the cowboys—bronzed, and lean, 
and rugged; vitally alive in every inch of his long body; with 
self-reliant courage and daring hardihood written all over 
him, expressed in every tone of his voice, and ringing in every 
note of his laughter. 

The Dean and Mrs. Baldwin and Little Billy drove in the 
bucldboard, but the distinguished guest of the Cross-Triangle 
went with the Reid family in the automobile. The professor 
was not at all interested in the celebration, but he could not 
well remain at the ranch alone, and, it may be supposed, the 
invitation from Kitty helped to make the occasion endurable. 

The celebration this year—the posters and circulars de¬ 
clared—was to be the biggest and best that Prescott had ever 
offered. In proof of the bold assertion, the program promised, 
in addition to the usual events, an automobile race. Shades 
£>f all those mighty heroes of the saddle, whose names may 
not be erased from the history of the great West, think of it! 
An automobile race offered as the chief event in a Frontier 
Day Celebration! 


240 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

No wonder that Mrs. Manning said to her husband that 
day, “But Stan, where are the cowboys ?” 

Stanford Manning answered laughingly, “Oh, they are 
here, all right, Helen; just wait a little and you will see.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Manning had arrived from Cleveland, Ohio, 
the evening before, and Helen was eager and excited with 
the prospect of meeting the people, and witnessing the scenes 
of which her husband had told her with so much enthusiasm. 

As the Dean had told Patches that day when the cattleman 
had advanced the money for the stranger’s outfit, the young 
mining engineer had won a place for himself amid the scenes 
and among the people of that western country. He had first 
come to the land of this story, fresh from his technical train¬ 
ing in the East. His employers, quick to recognize not only 
his ability in his profession but his character and manhood, 
as well, had advanced him rapidly and, less than a month 
before Patches asked for work at the Cross-Triangle, had 
sent him on an important mission to their mines in the North. 
They were sending him, now, again to Arizona, this time as 
the resident manager of their properties in the Prescott dis¬ 
trict. This new advance in his profession, together with the 
substantial increase in salary which it brought, meant much 
to the engineer. Most of all, it meant his marriage to Helen 
Wakefield. A stop-over of two weeks at Cleveland, on liir 
vvay West, from the main offices of his Company in Nev. 
York, haa changed his return to Prescott from a simple busi¬ 
ness trip to a wedding journey. 

At the home of the Yavapai Club, on top of the hill, a 


242 






WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


block above the plaza, a number of Prescott's citizens, with 
their guests, had gathered to watch the beginning of the auto¬ 
mobile race. The course, from the comer in front of the St. 
Michael hotel, followed the street along one side of the plaza, 
climbed straight up the hill, passed the clubhouse, and so 
away into the open country. Prom the clubhouse veranda, 
from the lawn and walks in front, or from their seats in con¬ 
venient automobiles standing near, the company enjoyed, 
thus, an unobstructed view of the starting point of the race, 
and could look down as well upon the crowds that pressed 
against the ropes which were stretched along either side of 
the street. Prom a friendly automobile, Helen Manning, 
with her husband's field glasses, was an eager and excited 
observer of the interesting scene, while Stanford near by was 
busy greeting old friends, presenting them to his wife and 
receiving their congratulations. And often, he turned with 
a fond look and a merry word to the young woman, as though 
reassuring himself that she was really there. There was no 
doubt about it, Stanford Manning, strong and steady and 
forceful, was very much in love with this girl who looked 
down into his face with such an air of sweet confidence and 
companionship. And Helen, as she turned from the scene 
that so interested her, to greet her husband's friends, to ask 
him some question, or to answer some laughing remark, could 
not hide the love light in her soft brown eyes. One could 
not fail to see that her woman heart was glad—glad and 
proud that this stalwart, broad-shouldered leader of men had 
chosen her for his mate. 


242 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“But, Stan,” she said, with a pretty air of disappoint¬ 
ment, “I thought it was all going to he so different. Why, 
except for the mountains, and those poor Indians over there, 
this might all be in some little town hack home. I thought 
there would be cowboys riding about everywhere, with long 
hair and big hats, and guns and things.” 

Stanford and his friends who were standing near laughed. 

“I fear, Mrs. Manning,” remarked Mr. Richards, one of 
Prescott’s bank presidents, “that Stanford has been telling 
you wild west stories. The West moves as well as the East, 
you know. We are becoming civilized.” 

“Indeed you are, Mr. Richards,” Helen returned. “And 
I don’t think I like it a bit. It’s not fair to your poor eastern 
sight-seers, like myself.” 

“If you are really so anxious to see a sure enough cow¬ 
boy, look over there,” said Stanford, and pointed across the 
street. 

“Where ?” demanded Helen eagerly. 

“There,” smiled Stanford, “the dark-faced chap near 
that automobile standing by the curb; the machine with the 
pretty girl at the wheel. See! he is stopping to talk with the 
girl.” 

“What! That nice looking man, dressed just like thou¬ 
sands of men that we might see any day on the streets of 
Cleveland ?” cried Helen. 

“Exactly,” chuckled her husband, while the others laughed 
at her incredulous surprise. “But, just the same, that’s Phil 
Acton; *Wild Horse Phil/ if you please. He is the cowboy 


243 









WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


foreman of the Cross-Triangle Ranch, and won the champion¬ 
ship in the bronco riding last year.” 

“I don’t believe it—yon are making fun of me, Stanford 
Manning.” 

Then, before he could answer, she cried, with quick excite¬ 
ment, “But, Stan, look! Look at the girl in the automobile! 
She looks like—it is, Stan, it is!” And to the amazement of 
her husband and her friends Mrs. Manning sprang to her feet 
and, waving her handkerchief, called, “Kitty! Oh, Kitty—• 
Kitty Reid!” 

As her clear call rang out, many people turned to look, 
and then to smile at the picture, as she stood there in the 
bright Arizona day, so animated and wholesomely alive in the 
grace and charm of her beautiful young womanhood, above 
the little group of men who were looking up at her with 
laughing admiration. 

On the other side of the street, where she sat with her 
parents and Professor Parkhill, talking to Phil, Kitty heard 
the call, and looked. A moment later she was across the 
street, and the two young women were greeting each other 
with old-time schoolgirl enthusiasm. Introductions and ex¬ 
planations followed, with frequent feminine exclamations of 
surprise and delight. Then the men drew a little away, talk¬ 
ing, laughing, as men will on such occasions, leaving the two 
women to themselves. 

In that eastern school, which, for those three years, had 
been Kitty’s home, Helen Wakefield and the girl from Ari¬ 
zona had been close and intimate friends. Indeed, Helen, 


244 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

with her strong womanly character and that rare gift of help¬ 
ful sympathy and understanding, had been to the girl fresh 
from the cattle ranges more than a friend; she had been coun¬ 
sellor and companion, and, in many ways, a wise guardian 
and teacher. 

“But why in the world didn’t you write me about it?” 
demanded Kitty a little later. “Why didn’t you tell me that 
you had become Mrs. Stanford Manning, and that you were 
coming to Prescott ?” 

Helen laughed and blushed happily. “Why, you see, 
Kitty, it all happened so quickly that there was no time to 
write. You remember when I wrote you about Stan, I told 
you how poor he was, and how we didn’t expect to be married 
for several years ?” 

“Yes.” " 

“Well, then, you see, Stan’s company, all unexpectedly to 
him, called him to New York and gave him this position out 
! here. He had to start at once, and wired me from New York. 

Just think, I had only a week for the wedding and every- 
i thing! I knew, of course, that I could find you after I got 
here.” 

“And now that you are here,” said Kitty decisively, “you 
and Mr. Manning are coming right out to Williamson Valley 
! to spend your honeymoon on the ranch.” 

But Helen shook her head. “Stan has it all planned, 
Kitty, and he won’t listen to anything else. There is a place 
around here somewhere that he calls Granite Basin, and he 
has it all arranged that we are to camp out there for three 


245 







WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


weeks. His company has given him that much time, and we 
are going just as soon as this celebration is over. After that, 
while Stan gets started with his work, and fixes some place 
for us to live, I will make you a little visit.” 

“I suppose there is no use trying to contend against the 
rights of a brand-new husband,” returned Kitty, “but it's a 
promise, that you will come to me as soon as your camping 
trip is over ?” 

“It’s a promise,” agreed Helen. “You see, that’s really 
part of Stanford’s plan; I was so sure you would want me, 
you know.” 

“Want you? I should say I do want you,” cried Kitty, 
“and I need you, too.” 

Something in her voice made Helen look at her question- 
ingly, but Kitty only smiled. 

“I’ll tell you all about it when there is more time.” 

“Let me see,” said Helen. “There used to be—why, of 
course, that nice looking man you were talking to when I 
recognized you—Phil Acton.” She looked across the street 
as she spoke, but Phil had gone. 

“Please don’t, Helen dear,” said Kitty, “that was only 
my schoolgirl nonsense. When I came back home I found 
how impossible it all was. But I must run back to the folks 
now. Won’t you come and meet them ?” 

Before Helen could answer someone shouted, “They’re 
getting ready for the start,” and everybody looked down the 
hill toward the place where the racing machines were sput¬ 
tering and roaring in their clouds of blue smoke. 


246 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Helen caught up the field glasses to look, saying, “We 
can’t go now, Kitty. You stay here with us until after the 
race is started; then we’ll go.” 

As Helen lowered the glasses Stanford, who had come to 
stand beside the automobile, reached out his hand. “Let me 
have a look, Helen. They say my old friend, Judge Morris, 
is the official starter.” He put the field glasses to his eyes. 
“There he is all right, as big as life; finest man that ever 
lived. Look, Helen.” He returned the glasses to his wif« 
“If you want to see a genuine western lawyer, a scholar and 
a gentleman, take a look at that six-foot-three or four down 
there in the gray clothes.” 

“I see him,” said Helen, “but there seems to be some' 
i: thing the matter; there he goes back to the machines. Now 
he’s laying down the law to the drivers.” 

“They won’t put over anything on Morris,” said Stan¬ 
ford admiringly. 

Then a deep, kindly voice at his elbow said, “Howdy, 
Manning! Ain’t you got time to speak to your old friends ?” 

Stanford whirled and, with a glad exclamation, grasped 
the Dean’s outstretched hand. Still holding fast to the cattle¬ 
man, he again turned to his wife, who was looking down at 
them with smiling interest. “Helen, this is Mr. Baldwin— 
the Dean, you know.” 

“Indeed, I ought to know the Dean,” she cried, giving 
him her hand. “Stanford has told me so much about you 
that I am in love with you already.” 

“And I”—retorted the Dean, looking up at her with his 


247 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


blue eyes twinkling approval—“I reckon I’ve always been in 
love with you. I’m sure glad to see that this young man has 
justified his reputation for good judgment. Have they got 
any more girls like you back East ? ’Cause if they have, I’ll 
sure be obliged to take a trip to that part of the world before 
I get too old.” 

“You are just as Stan said you were,” retorted Helen. 

“Uncle Will!” cried Kitty. “I am ashamed of you! I 
didn’t think you would turn down your own home folks like 
that!” 

The Dean lifted his hat and rumpled his grizzly hair as 
though fairly caught. Then: “Why, Kitty, you know that 
I couldn’t love any girl more than I do you. Why, you 
belong to me most as much as you belong to your own father 
and mother. But, you see—honey—well, you see, we’ve just 
naturally got to be nice to strangers, you know.” 

When they had laughed at this, Kitty explained to tht 
Dean how Mrs. Manning was the Helen Wakefield with whom 
3he had been such friends at school, and that, after the Man¬ 
nings’ outing in Granite Basin, Helen was to visit William¬ 
son Valley. 

“Campin’ out in Granite Basin, heh?” said the Dean to 
Stanford. “I reckon you’ll be seein’ some o’ my boys. They’re 
goin’ up into that country after outlaw steers next week.” 

“I hope so,” returned Stanford. “Helen has been com¬ 
plaining that there are no cowboys to be seen. I pointed out 
Phil Acton, but he didn’t seem to fill the bill; she doesn’t 
believe that he is a cowboy at all.” 


248 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The Dean chuckled. “He’s never been anything else. 
They don’t make ’em any better anywhere.” Then he added 
soberly, “Phil’s not ridin’ in the contest this year, though.” 

“What’s the matter ?” 

“I don’t know. He’s got some sort of a fool notion in 
his head that he don’t want to make an exhibition of himself 
—that’s what he said. I’ve got another man on the ranch 
now,” he added, as though to change the subject, “that’ll be 
mighty near as good as Phil in another year. His name is 
Patches. He’s a good one, all right.” 

Kitty, who had been looking away down the street while 
the Dean was talking, put her hand on Helen’s arm. “Look 
down there, Helen., I believe that is Patches now—that man 
sitting on his horse^t the cross street, at the foot of the hill, 
just outside the ropes.” 

Helen was looking through the field glasses. “I see him,” 
she cried. “Now, that’s more like it. He looks like what I 
expected to see. What a fine, big chap he is, isn’t he?” 
Then, as she studied the distant horseman, a puzzled expres¬ 
sion came over her face. “Why, Kitty!” she said in a low: 
tone, so that the men who were talking did not hear. “Do 
you know, that man somehow reminds me”—she hesitated 
and lowered the glasses to look at her companion with half- 
amused, half-embarrassed eyes—“he reminds me of Lawrence 
Knight.” ' ,u T ~* 

i£itty’s brown, fun-loving eyes glowed with mischief. 
“Really, Mrs. Manning, I am ashamed of you. Before the 
honeymoon has waned, your thoughts, with no better excuse 


249 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

than the appearance of a poor cow-puncher, go back to the 
captivating charms of your old millionaire lover. I—” 

“Kitty! Do hush,” pleaded Helen. 

She lifted her glasses for another look at the cowboy. 

“I don’t wonder that your conscience reproves you,” 
teased Kitty, in a low tone. “But tell me, poor child, how 
did it happen that you lost your millionaire ?” 

“I didn’t lose him,” retorted Helen, still watching 
Patches. “He lost me.” 

Kitty persisted with a playful mockery. “What! the 
great, the wonderful Knight of so many millions, failed, with 
all his glittering charms, to captivate the fair but simple 
Helen! Really, I can’t believe it.” 

“Look at that man right there,” flashed Helen proudly, 
indicating her husband, “and you can believe it.” 

Kitty laughed so gaily that Stanford turned to look at 
them with smiling inquiry. 

“Never mind, Mr. Manning,” said Kitty, “we are just 
reminiscing, that’s all.” 

“Don’t miss the race,” he answered; “they’re getting 
ready again to start. It looks like a go this time.” 

“And to think,” murmured Kitty, “that I never so much 
as saw your Knight’s picture! But you used to like Lawrence 
Knight, didn’t you, Helen ?” she added, as Helen lifted her 
field glasses again. And now, Mrs. Manning caught a note 
of earnest inquiry in her companion’s voice. It was as 
though the girl were seeking confirmation of some purpose 
or decision of her own. 


250 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Why, yes, Kitty, I liked Larry Knight very much,” she 
answered frankly. “He was a fine fellow in many ways—a 
dear, good friend. Stanford and I are both very fond of 
him; they were college mates, you know. But, my dear girl, 
no one could ever consider poor old Larry seriously—as a 
man, you know—he is so—so utterly and hopelessly worth* 
less.” 

“Worthless! With—how many millions is it?” 

“Oh, Kitty, you know what I mean. But, really dear, 
we have talked enough about Mr. Lawrence Knight. I’m 
going to have another look at the cowboy. He looks like a 
real man, doesn’t he ? What is it the Dean called him ?” 

“Patches.” 

“Oh, yes; what a funny name—Patches.” 

“Honorable batches,” said Kitty. 

“How odd!” mused Helen. “Oh, Stan, come here a 
minute. Take the glasses and look at that cowboy down 
there.” 

Stanford trained the field glasses as she directed. 

“Doesn’t he remind you of Larry Knight?” 

“Larry Knight!” Stanford looked at her in amazement. 
“That cow-puncher ? Larry Knight ? I should say not. Lord! 
but wouldn’t fastidious, cultured and correct old Larry feel 
complimented to know that you found anything in a common 
cow-puncher to remind you of him! 

“But, here, take your glasses, quick; they are going to 
start at last.” 

Even as Helen looked, Judge Morris gave the signal and 

251 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


the first racing car, with a mighty roar, leaped away from 
the starting point, and thundered up the street between the 
lines of the crowding, cheering people. An instant more, 
and Helen Manning witnessed a scene that thrilled the hearts 
of every man, woman and child in that great crowd. 

As the big racing car, gathering speed at every throb of 
its powerful motor, swept toward the hill, a small boy, but 
little more than a toddling baby, escaped from his mother, 
who, with the excited throng, was crowding against the rope 
barrier, and before those whose eyes were fixed on the auto¬ 
mobile noticed, the child was in the street, fairly in the path 
of the approaching machine. A sudden hush fell on the 
shouting multitude. Helen, through the field glasses, could 
see even the child’s face, as, laughing gleefully, he looked 
back when his mother screamed. Stricken with horror, the 
young woman could not lower her glasses. Fascinated, she 
watched. The people seemed, forth instant, paralyzed. Not a 
soul moved or uttered a sound. Would the driver of the racing 
car swerve aside from his course in time ? If he did, would 
the baby, in sudden fright, dodge in front of the machine? 
Then Helen saw the cowboy who had so interested her lean 
forward in his saddle and strike his spurs deep in the flanks 
of his already restless horse. With a tremendous bound the 
animal cleared the rope barrier, and in an instant was leap¬ 
ing toward the child and the approaching car. The people 
gasped at the daring of the man who had not waited to think. 
It was over in a second. As Patches swept by the child, he 
leaned low from the saddle; and, as the next leap of his horse 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


carried him barely clear of the machine, they saw his tall, 
lithe body straighten, as he swung the baby up into his arms. 

Then, indeed, the crowd went wild. Men yelled and 
cheered; women laughed and cried; and, as the cowboy re¬ 
turned the frightened baby to the distressed mother, a hun¬ 
dred eager hands were stretched forth to greet him. But the 
excited horse backed away; someone raised the rope barrier, 
and Patches disappeared down the side street. 

Helen’s eyes were wet, but she was smiling. “No,” she 
said softly to Kitty and Stanford, “that was not Lawrence 
Knight. Poor old Larry never could have done that.” 

It was a little after the noon hour when Kitty, who, with 
her father, mother and brothers, had bfeen for dinner at the 
home of one of their Prescott friends, was crossing the plaza 
on her way to join Mr. and Mrs. Manning, with whom she 
was to spend the afternoon. In a less frequented comer of 
the little park, back of the courthouse, she saw Patches. The 
cowboy, who had changed from his ranch costume to a less 
picturesque business garb, was seated alone on one of the 
benches that are placed along the walks, reading a letter. 
With his attention fixed upon the letter, he did not notice 
Kitty as she approached. And the girl, when she first caught 
sight of him, paused for an instant; then she went toward 
him slowly, studying him with a new interest. 

She was quite near when, looking up, he saw her. In¬ 
stantly he rose to his feet, slipped the letter into his pocket, 
and stood before her, hat in hand, to greet her with genuine 
pleasure and with that gentle courtesy which always marked 


253 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


his bearing. And Kittv, as she looked up at him, felt, more 
convincingly than ever, that this man would be perfectly at 
ease in the most exacting social company. 

“I fear I interrupted you,” said the young woman. "I 
was just passing.” 

“Not at all,” he protested. “Surely you can give me a 
moment of your busy gala day. I know you have a host of 
friends, of course, but—well, I am lonely. Curly and Bob 
and the boys are all having the time of their lives; the Dean 
and mother are lunching with friends; and I don’t know 
where Phil has hidden himself.” 

It was like him to mention Phil in almost his first words 
to her. And Kitty, as Patches spoke Phil’s name, instantly, 
as she had so often done during the past few months, mentally 
placed the two men side by side. 

“I just wanted to tell you”—she hesitated—“Mr. 
Patches—” 

“I beg your pardon,” he interrupted smiling. 

“Well, Patches then; but you seem so different somehow, 
dressed like this. I just wanted to tell you that I saw what 
happened this morning. It was splendid!” 

“Why, Miss Reid, you know that was nothing. The 
driver of the car would probably have dodged the youngster 
anyway. I acted on the impulse of the moment, without 
thinking. I’m always doing something unnecessarily foolish, 
you know.” 

“The driver of the car would more likely have dodged 
into the child,” she returned warmly. “And it was fortunate 


254 


WHEN' A MAH’S A MAH 


that some one in all that stupid crowd could act without tak 
ing time to think. Everybody says so. The dear old Dean is 
as pleased and proud as though you were one of his own sons.” 

“Really, you make too much of it,” he returned, clearly 
embarrassed by her praise. “Tell me, you are enjoying the 
celebration ? And what’s the matter with Phil ? Can’t you 
persuade him to ride in the contest? We don’t want the 
championship to go out of Yavapai County, do we ?” 

Why must he always bring Phil into their talk? Kitty 
asked herself. 

“I am sure that Phil knows how all his friends feel about 
his riding,” she said coolly. “If he does not wish to gratify 
them, it is really a small matter, is it not ?” 

Patches saw that he had made a mistake and changed 
easily to a safer topic. 

“You saw the beginning of the automobile race, of course ? 
I suppose you will be on hand this afternoon for the finish ?” 

“Oh, yes, I’m on my way now to join my friends, Mr. 
and Mrs. Stanford Manning. We are going to see the finish 
of the race together.” 

She watched his face closely, as she spoke of her friends, 
but he gave no sign that he had ever heard the name before. 

“It will be worth seeing, I fancy,” he returned. “At 
least everybody seems to feel that way.” 

“I am sure to have a good time, anyway,” she returned, 
“because, you see, Mrs. Manning is one of my very dearest 
girl friends, whom I have not seen for a long time.” 

“Indeed! You will enjoy the afternoon, then/-’ 


255 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Was there a shade too much enthusiasm in the tone of his 
reply ? Kitty wondered. Could it be that his plea of loneli¬ 
ness was merely a conventional courtesy and that he was 
really relieved to find that she was engaged for the afternoon ? 

“Yes, and I must hurry on to them, or they will think I 
am not coming,” she said. “Have a good time, Patches; you 
surely have earned it. Good-by!” 

He stood for a moment watching her cross the park. Then, 
with a quick look around, as though he did not wish to be 
observed, he hurried across the street to the Western Union 
office. A few moments later he made his way, by little-fre¬ 
quented side streets, to the stable where he had left his horse; 
and while Kitty and her friends were watching the first of 
the racing cars cross the line, Patches was several miles away, 
riding as though pursued by the sheriff, straight for the Cross- 
Triangle Kanch. 

Several times that day, while she was with her eastern 
friends, Kitty saw Phil near by. But she gave him no signal 
to join them, and the cowboy, shy always, and hurt by Kitty’s 
indifference, would not approach the little party without her 
invitation. But that evening, while Kitty was waiting in the 
hotel lobby for Mr. and Mrs. Manning, Phil, finding her 
alone, went to her. 

“I have been trying to speak to you all day,” he said 
reproachfully. “Haven’t you any time for me at all, Kitty ?” 

“Don’t be foolish, Phil,” she returned; “you have seen 
me a dozen times.” 

“I have seen you, yes,” he answered bitterly. 


256 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“But, Phil, you could have come to me, if you had wanted 

to.” 

“I have no desire to go where I am not wanted,” he 
answered. 

“Phil!” 

“Well, you gave no sign that you wanted me.” 

“There w r as no reason why I should,” she retorted. “You 
are not a child. I was with my friends from the East. You 
could have joined us if you had cared to. I should be very 
glad, indeed, to present you to Mr. and Mrs. Manning.” 

“Thank you, but I don’t care to be exhibited as an inters 
esting specimen to people who have no use for me except 
when I do a few fool stunts to amuse them.” 

“Very well, Phil,” she returned coldly. “If that is your 
feeling, I do not care to present you to my friends. They are 
every bit as sincere and genuine as you are; and I certain!} 
shall not trouble them with anyone who cannot appreciate 
them.” 

Kitty was angry, as she had good reason for being. But 
beneath her anger she was sorry for the man whose bitter¬ 
ness, she knew, was born of his love for her. And Phil saw 
only that Kitty was lost to him—saw in the girl’s eastern 
friends those who, he felt, had robbed him of his dream. 

“I suppose,” he said, after a moment’s painful silence, 
“that I had better go back to the range where I belong. I’m 
out of place here.” 

The girl was touched by the hopelessness in his voice, but 
she felt that it would be no kindness to offer him the relief of 


257 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


1 


an encouraging word. Her day with her eastern friends, and 
the memories that her meeting with Mrs. Manning had 
aroused, convinced her more than ever that her old love for 
Phil, and the life of which he was a part, were for her im¬ 
possible. 

When she did not speak, the cowboy said bitterly, “I 
noticed that your fine friends did not take quite all your time. 
You found an opportunity for a quiet little visit with Hon¬ 
orable Patches.” 

Kitty was angry now in earnest. “You are forgetting 
yourself, Phil,” she answered with cold dignity, “xlnd I 
think that as long as you feel as you do toward my friends, 
and can speak to me like this about Mr. Patches, you are right 
in saying that you belong on the range. Mr. and Mrs. Man¬ 
ning are here, I see. I am going to dine with them. Good- 
by !” She turned away, leaving him standing there. 

A moment he waited, as though stunned; then he turned 
to make his way blindly out of the hotel. 



It was nearly morning when Patches was awakened 
by the sound of someone moving about the kitchen. A mo¬ 
ment he listened, then, rising, went quickly to the kitchen 
door, thinking to surprise some chance night visitor. 

When Phil saw him standing there the foreman for a 
moment said nothing, but, with the bread knife in one hand 
and one of Stella’s good loaves in the other, stared at him in 


258 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


blank surprise. Then the look of surprise changed to an 
expression of questioning suspicion, and he demanded 
harshly, “What in hell are you doing here ?” 

Patches saw that the man was laboring under some great 
trouble. Indeed, Phil’s voice and manner were not unlike 
one under the influence of strong drink. But Patches knew 
that Phil never drank. 

“I was sleeping,” he answered calmly. “You woke me, 
I suppose. I heard you, and came to see who was prowling 
around the kitehen at this time of the night; that is all.” 

“Oh, that’s all, is it ? But what are you here for ? Why 
aren’t you in Prescott where you are supposed to be ?” 

Patches, because he saw Phil’s painful state of mind, 
exercised admirable self-control. “I supposed I had a perfect 
right to come here if I wished. I did not dream that my 
presence in this house would be questioned.” 

“That depends,” Phil retorted. “Why did you leave 
Prescott?” 

Patches, still calm, answered gently. “My reasons for not 
! staying in Prescott are entirely personal, Phil; I do not care 
to explain just now.” 

“Oh, you don’t ? Well, it seems to me, sir, that you have 
a devil of a lot of personal business that you can’t explain.” 

“I am afraid I have,” returned Patches, with his old self- 
; mocking smile. “But, look here, Phil, you are disturbed 
j and all wrought up about something, or you wouldn’t attacK 
! me like this. You don’t really think me a suspicious char¬ 
acter, and you know you don’t. You are not yourself, old 


259 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


man, and I’ll be banged if I’ll take anything yon say as an 
insult, until I know that you say it, deliberately, in cold 
blood. I’m sorry for your trouble, Phil—damned sorry— 
I would give anything if I could help you. Perhaps I may 
be able to prove that later, but just now I think the kindest 
and wisest thing that I can do for us both is to say good¬ 
night.” 

He turned at the last word, without waiting for Phil to 
speak, and went back to his room. 





2 GO 






0U 




PfEK 


XIII 


IN GRANITE BASIN. 

N* the other side of Granite Mountain from where i i 
Phil and Patches watched the wild horses that 
day, there is a rocky hollow, set high in the hills, 
but surrounded on every side by still higher peaks 
and ridges. Lying close under the sheer, towering cliffs 
of th ' mountain, those fortress-like walls so gray and grim 
and old seem to overshadow the place with a somber quiet, as 
though the memories of the many ages that had wrought their 
c vuntless years into those mighty battlements gave to the 
very atmosphere a feeling of solemn and sacred seclusion. It 
was as though nature had thrown about this spot a strong 
protecting guard, that here, in her very heart, she might keep 
unprofaned the sweetness and strength and beauty of her 
primitive and everlasting treasures. 

In its wild and rugged setting, Granite Basin has, for the 
few who have the hardihood to find them, many beautiful 
glades and shady nooks, where the grass and wild flowers 
weave their lovely patterns for the earth floor, and tall pines 
spread their soft carpets of brown, while giant oaks and syca- 


261 










WHEjST A MAH’S A MAH 


mores lift their cathedral arches to support the ceilings of 
green, and dark rock fountains set in banks of moss and 
fern hold water clear and cold. It was to one of these that 
Stanford Manning brought his bride for their honeymoon. 
Stanford himself pitched their tent and made their simple 
camp, for it Was not in his plan that the sweet intimacy of 
these, the first weeks of their mated life, should be marred, 
even by servants. And Helen, wise in her love, permitted 
him tc realize his dream in the fullness of its every detail. 

As she lay in the hammock which he had hung for her 
under the canopy of living green, and watched him while he 
brought wood for their camp fire, and made all ready for the 
night which was drawing near, she was glad that he had 
planned it so. But more than that, she was glad that he was 
the kind of a man who would care to plan it so. Then, when 
all was finished, he came to sit beside her, and together they 
watched the light of the setting sun fade from the summit of 
Old Granite, and saw the flaming cloud-banner that hung 
above the mountain’s castle towers furled by the hand of 
night. In silence they watched those mighty towering battle¬ 
ments grow cold and grim, until against the sky the shadowy 
bulk stood mysterious and awful, as though to evidence in its 
grandeur and strength the omnipotent might and power of 
the Master Builder of the world and Giver of all life. 

And when the soft darkness was fully come, and the low 
murmuring voices of the night whispered from forest depth 
and mountain side, while the stars peered through the weav¬ 
ing of leaf and branch, and the ruddy light of their camp 
fire rose and fell, the man talked of the things that had gone 

262 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

into the making of his life. As though he wished his mate to 
know him more fully than anyone else could know, he spoke 
of those personal trials and struggles, those disappointments 
and failures, those plans and triumphs of which men so rarely 
speak; of his boyhood and his boyhood home life, of his father 
and mother, of those hard years of his youth, and his struggle 
for an education that would equip him for his chosen life 
i work; he told her many things that she had known only in a 
[ general way. 

But most of a! 1 he talked of those days when he had first 
met her, and of how quickly and surely the acquaintance had 
grown into friendship, and then into a love which he dared 
not yet confess. Smilingly he told how he had tried to con¬ 
vince himself that she was not for him. And how, believing 
that she loved and would wed his friend / Lawrence Knight, 
he had come to the far West, to his work, and, if he could, to 
forget 

“But I could not forget, dear girl,” he said. “I could 
not escape the conviction that you belonged to me, as I felt 
that I belonged to you. I could not banish the feeling that 
some mysterious higher law—the law that governs the mating 
' of the beautifully free creatures that live in these hills—had 
I mated you and me. And so, as I worked and tried to forget, 
I went on dreaming just the same. It was that way w T hen I 
first saw this place. I was crossing the country on my way 
to examine some prospects for the company, and camped at 
this very spot And that evening I planned it all, just as 
it is to-night. I put the tent there, and built our fire, and 
stretched your hammock under the tree, and sat with you ir 

263 







WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


the twilight; but even as I dreamed it I laughed at myself for 
a fool, for I could not believe that the dream would ever 
come true. And then, when I got back to Prescott, there was 
a letter from a Cleveland friend, telling me that Larry had 
gone abroad to be away a year or more, and another letter 
from the company, calling me East again. And so I stopped 
at Cleveland and—” He laughed happily. “I know now 
that dreams do come true.” 

“You foolish boy,” said Helen softly. “To think that I 
did not know. Why, when you went away, I was so sure 
that you would come for me again, that I never even thought 
that it could be any other way. I thought you did not speak 
because you felt that you were too poor, because you felt that 
you had so little to offer, and because you wished to prove 
yourself and your work before asking me to share your life. 
1 did not dream that you could doubt my love for you, or 
think for a moment that there could ever be anyone else. 
I felt that you must know; and so, you see, while I waited I 
had my dreams, too.” 

“But don’t you see, girl,” he answered, as though for a 
moment he found it hard to believe his own happiness, “don’t 
you see ? Larry is such a splendid fellow, and you two were 
such friends, and you always seemed so fond of him, and 
with his wealth he could give you so much that I knew I never 
could give—” 

“Of course, I am fond of Larry; everyone is. He has 
absolutely nothing to do in the world but to make himself 
charming and pleasant and entertaining and amusing. Why, 
Stan, I don’t suppose that in all his life he ever did one single 


264 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


thing that was necessary or useful. He even had a man to 
help him dress. He is cultured and intellectual, and bright 
and witty, and clean and good-natured, possessing, in fact, all 
the qualifications of a desirable lap dog, and you can’t help 
liking him, j ust as you would like a pretty, useless pet.” 

Stanford chuckled. She had described Lawrence Knight 
so accurately. 

“Poor old Larry,” he said. “What a man he might have 
been if he had not been so pampered and petted and envied 
and spoiled, all because of his father’s money. His heart is 
right, and at the bottom he has the right sort of stuff in him. 
His athletic record at school showed us that. I think that was 
why we all liked him so in spite of his uselessness.” 

“I wish you could have known my father, Stan,” said 
Helen thoughtfully, as though she, too, were moved to speak 
by the wish that her mate might know more of the things that 
had touched her deeper life. 

“I wish so, too,” he answered. “I know that he must have 
been fine.” 

“He was my ideal,” she answered softly. “My other 
ideal, I mean. From the time I was a slip of a girl he made 
me his chum. Until he died we were always together. Mother 
died when I was a baby, you know. Many, many times he 
would take me with him when he made his professional visits 
to his patients, leaving me in the buggy to wait at each house 
—‘to be his hitching post’—he used to say. And on those 
long rides, sometimes out into the country, he talked to me as 
I suppose not many fathers talk to their daughters. And 
because he was my father and a physician, and because we 


265 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


were so much alone in our companionship, I believed him the 
wisest and best man in all the world, and felt that nothing 
he said or did could be wrong. And so, you see, dear, my 
ideal man, the man to whom I could give myself, came to be 
the kind of a man that my father placed in the highest rank 
among men—a man like you, Stan. And almost the last talk 
we had before he died father said to me—I remember his 
very words—‘My daughter, it will not be long now until men 
will seek you, until someone will ask you to share his life. 
Keep your ideal man safe in your heart of hearts, daughter, 
and remember that no matter what a suitor may have to offer 
of wealth or social rank, if he is not your ideal—if you cannot 
respect and admire him for his character and manhood alone 
—say no; say no, child, at any cost. But when your ideal 
man comes—the one who compels your respect and admira¬ 
tion for his strength of character, and for the usefulness of 
his life, the one whom you cannot help loving for his man¬ 
hood alone—mate with him—no matter how light his purse 
or how lowly his rank in the world.’ And so you see, as 
soon as I learned to know you, I realized what you were to me. 
But I wish—oh, how I wish—that father could have lived to 
know you, too.” 

For some time they watched the dancing camp fire flames 
in silence, as though they had found in their love that true 
oneness that needs no spoken word. 

Then Stanford said, “And to think that we expected to 
wait two years or more, and now r —thanks to a soulless corpo¬ 
ration—we are here in a little less than a year!” 

“Thanks to no soulless corporation for that, sir,” retorted 

266 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Helen with spirit. “But thanks to the brains and strength 
and character of my husband.” 

Two of the three weeks’ vacation granted the engineer 
had passed when Mrs. Manning, one afternoon, informed her 
husband that as the ordained provider for the household it 
was imperative that he provide some game for their evening 
meal. 

“And what does Her Majesty, the cook, desire ?” he asked. 
“Venison, perhaps ?” 

She shook her head with decision. “You will be obliged 
to go too far, and be gone too long, to get a deer.” 

“But you’re going with me, of course.” 

Again she shook her head. “I have something else to do. 
I can’t always be tagging around after you while you are 
providing, you know; and we may as well begin to be civilized 
again. Just go a little way—not so far that you can’t hear 
me call—and bring me some nice fat quail like those we had 
day before yesterday.” 

She watched him disappear in the brush and then busied 
herself about the camp. Presently she heard the gun, and 
smiled as she pictured him hunting for their supper, much 
as though they were two primitive children of nature, instead 
of the two cultured members of a highly civilized race, that 
they really were. Then, presently she must go to the spring 
for water, that he might have a cool drink when he returned. 

She was half way to the spring, singing softly to herself, 
when a sound on the low ridge above the camp attracted her 
attention. Pausing, she looked and listened. The song died 
on her lips. It could not be Stanford coming so noisily 

267 ’ 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


through the brush and from that direction. Even as the 
thought came, she heard the gun again, a little farther away 
down the narrow valley below the camp, and, in the same 
moment, th:. noise on the ridge grew louder, as though some 
heavy animal were crashing through the bushes. And then 
suddenly, as she stood there in frightened indecision, a long¬ 
horned, wild-eyed steer broke through the brush on the crest 
of the ridge and plunged down the steep slope toward the 
camp. 

Weak and helpless with fear, Helen could neither scream 
nor run, but stood fascinated by the very danger that menaced 
her—powerless, even, to turn her eyes away from the fright- 
ful creature that had so rudely broken the quiet seclusion of 
the little glade. Behind the steer, even as the frenzied animal 
leaped from the brow of the hill, she saw a horseman, as wild 
in his appearance and in his reckless rushing haste as the 
creature he pursued. Curiously, as in a dream, she saw the 
horse’s neck and shoulders dripping wet with sweat, as with 
ears fiat, nose outstretched, and nostrils wide the animal 
strained every nerve in an effort to put his rider a few feet 
closer to the escaping quarry. She even noted the fringed 
leather chaps, the faded blue jumper, the broad hat of the 
rider, and that in his rein band he held the coil of a riata high 
above the saddle horn, while in his right was the half-opened 
loop. The bridle reins were loose, as though he gave the horse 
no thought; and they took the steep, down^ ard plunge from 
the summit of the ridge without an instant’s pause, and appar¬ 
ently with all the ease and confidence that they would have 
felt on smooth and level ground. 


268 




WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


The steer, catching sight of the woman, and seeing in her, 
perhaps, another enemy, swerved a little in his plunging 
course, and, with lowered head, charged straight at her. 

The loop of that rawhide rope was whirling now above 
the cowboy’s head, and his spurs drew blood from the heaving 
flanks of the straining horse, as every mad leap of the steer 
brought death a few feet nearer the helpless woman. 

The situation must have broken with frightful sudden¬ 
ness upon the man, but he gave no sign—no startled shout, no 
excited movement. He even appeared, to Helen, to be as 
coolly deliberate as though no thought of her danger dis¬ 
turbed him; and she recognized, even in that awful moment, 
the cowboy whom she had watched through the field glasses, 
that day of the celebration at Prescott. She could not know 
that, in the same instant, as his horse plunged down from the 
summit of the ridge, Patches had recognized her; and that 
as his hand swung the riata with such cool and deliberate 
precision, the man was praying—praying as only a man who 
sees the woman he loves facing a dreadful death, with no 
hand but his to save her, could pray. 

God help him if his training of nerve and hand should 
fail now! Christ pity him, if that whirling loop should miss 
its mark, or fall short! 

His eye told him that the distance was still too great. 
He must—he must —lessen it; and again his spurs drew 
blood. He must be cool—cool and steady and sure—and he 
must act now—NOW! 

Helen saw the racing horse make a desperate leap as the 
spurs tore his heaving sides; she saw that swiftly whirling 


269 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

loop leave the rider’s hand, as the man leaned forward in 
his saddle. Curiously she watched the loop open with beauti¬ 
ful precision, as the coils were loosed and the long, thin line 
lengthened through the air. It seemed to move so slowly— 
those wickedly lowered horns were so near! Then she saw 
the rider’s right hand move with flashlike quickness to the 
saddle horn, as he threw his weight back, and the horse, with 
legs braced and hoofs plowing the ground, stopped in half 
his own length, and set his weight against the weight of the 
steer. The flexible riata straightened as a rod of iron, the 
steer’s head jerked sideways; his horns buried themselves 
in the ground; he fell, almost at her feet. And then, as the 
cowboy leaped from his horse, Helen felt herself sinking into 
a soft, thick darkness that, try as she might, she could not 
escape. 

Still master of himself, but with a kind of fierce coolness, 
Patches ran to the fallen steer and securely tied the animal 
down. But when he turned to the woman who lay uncon¬ 
scious on the ground, a sob burst from his lips, and tears 
were streaming down his dust-grimed cheeks. And as he 
knelt beside her he called again and again that name which, 
a year before, he had whispered as he stood with empty, out¬ 
stretched arms, alone, on the summit of the Divide. 

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the hammock, 
and finding water and a towel, wet her brow and face; and 
all the while, in an agony of fear, he talked to her with words 
of love. 

Overwrought by the unexpected, and, to him, almost 
miraculous meeting with Helen—weak and shaken by the 

270 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


strain of those moments of her danger, when her life depended 
so wholly upon his coolness and skill—unnerved by the sight 
of her lying so still and white, and beside himself with the 
strength of his passion—the man made no effort to account 
for her presence in that wild and lonely spot, so far from 
the scenes amid which he had learned to know and love her. 
He was conscious only that she was there—that she had been 
very near to death—that he had held her in his arms—and 
that he loved her with all the strength of his manhood. 

Presently, with a low cry of joy, he saw the blood creep 
back into her white cheeks. Slowly her eyes opened and she 
looked wonderinglv up into his face. 

“Helen!” he breathed. “Helen!” 

“Why, Larry!” she murmured, still confused and won¬ 
dering. “So it was you, after all! But what in the world 
are you doing here like this ? They told me your name was 
Patches—Honorable Patches.” 

Then the man spoke—impetuously, almost fiercely, his 
words came without thought. 

“I am here because I would be anything, do anything that 
a man could be and do to win your love. A year ago, when 
I told you of my love, and asked you to be my wife, and, like 
the silly, pampered, petted fool that I was, thought that my 
wealth and the life that I offered could count for anything 
with a woman like you, you laughed at me. You told me that 
if ever you married, you, would wed, a man, not a fortune nor 
a social position. You made me see myself as I was—a use¬ 
less idler, a dummy for the tailors, a superficial chatterer of 
pretty nothings to vain and shallow women; you told me that 

271 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


I possessed not one manly trait of character that could compel 
the genuine love of an honest woman. You let me see the 
truth, that my proposal to you was almost an insult. You 
made me understand that your very friendship for me was 
such a friendship as you might have with an amusing and 
irresponsible boy, or a spoiled child. You could not even con¬ 
sider my love for you seriously, as a woman like you must 
consider the love of a strong man. And you were right, 
Helen. But, dear, it was for me a bitter, bitter lesson. I 
went from you, ashamed to look men in the face. I felt 
myself guilty—a pitifully weak and cowardly thing, with no 
right to exist. In my humiliation, I ran from all who knew 
me—I came out here to escape from the life that had made 
me what I was—that had robbed me of my manhood. And 
here, by chance, in the contests at the celebration in Prescott, 
I saw a man—a cowboy—who possessed everything that I 
lacked, and for the lack of which you had laughed at me. 
And then alone one night I faced myself and fought it out. 
I knew that you were right, Helen, but it was not easy to 
give up the habits and luxury to which all my life I had been 
accustomed. It was not easy, I say, but my love for you 
made it a glorious thing to do; and I hoped and believed that 
if I proved myself a man, I could go back to you, in the 
strength of my manhood, and you would listen to me. And 
so, penniless and a stranger, under an assumed name, I sought 
useful, necessary work that called for the highest quality of 
manhood. And I have won, Helen; I know that I have won. 
To-day Patches, the cowboy, can look any man in the face. 
He can take his place and hold his own among men of an;y 

272 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


class anywhere. I have regained that of which the circum 
stances of birth and inheritance and training robbed me. I 
have won the right of a man to come to you again. I claim 
that right now, Helen. I tell you again that I love you. I 
love you as—” 

“Larry! Larry!” she cried, springing to her feet, and 
drawing away from him, as though suddenly awakened from 
some strange spell. “Larry, you must not! What do you 
mean ? How can you say such things to me ?” 

He answered her with reckless passion. “I say such 
things because I am a man, and because you are the woman 
T love and want; because—” 

She cried out again in protest. “Oh, stop, stop! Please 
stop! Don’t you know ?” 

“Know what ?” he demanded. 

“My—my husband!” she gasped. “Stanford Manning— 
we are here on our honeymoon.” 

She saw him flinch as though from a heavy blow, and 
put out his hand to the trunk of a tree near which they stood, 
to steady himself. He did not speak, but his lips moved as 
though he repeated her words to himself, over and over again; 
and he gazed at her with a strange bewildered, doubting look, 
as though he could not believe his own suffering. 

Impulsively Helen went a step toward him. “Larry!” 
she said. “Larry!” 

Her voice seemed to arouse him and he stood erect as 
though by a conscious effort of will. Then that old self- 
mocking smile was on his lips. He was laughing at his hurt 
—making sport of himself and his cruel predicament. 


273 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


But to Helen there was that in his smile which wrung 
her woman heart. “Oh, Larry,” she said gently. “Forgive 
me; I am so sorry; I—” 

He put out his hand with a gesture of protest, and his 
voice was calm and courteous. “I beg your pardon, Helen. 
It was stupid of me not to have understood. I forgot myself 
for the moment. It was all so unexpected—meeting you like 
this. I did not think.” He looked away toward his waiting 
horse and to the steer lying on the ground. “So you and 
Stanford Manning—Good old Stan! I am glad for him. 
And for you, too, Helen. Why, it was I who introduced him 
to you; do you remember ?” 

He smiled again that mirthless, self-mocking smile, as he 
added without giving her time to speak, “If you will excuse 
me for a moment, I will rid your camp of the unwelcome 
presence of that beast yonder.” Then he went toward his 
horse, as though turning for relief to the work that had 
become so familiar to him. 

She watched him while he released the steer, and drove 
the animal away over the ridge, where he permitted it to 
escape into the wild haunts where it lived with its outlaw 
companions. 

When he rode back to the little camp Stanford had 
returned. 

For an hour they talked together as old friends. But 
Helen, while she offered now and then a word or a remark, 
or asked a question, and laughed or smiled with them, left 
the talk mostly to the two men. Stanford, when the first 
shock of learning of Helen’s narrow escape was over, was 

274 





WHEN' A MAN’S A MAN 


gaily enthusiastic and warm in his admiration for his old 
friend, who had, for no apparent reason but the wish to 
assert his own manhood, turned his back upon the ease and 
luxury of his wealth to live a life of adventurous hardship. 
And Patches, as he insisted they should call him, with many 
a laughing jest and droll comment told them of his new life 
and work. He was only serious when he i^ade them promise 
to keep his identity a secret until he himself- was ready to 
reveal his real name. 

“And what do you propose to do when your game of 
Patches is played out ?” Stanford asked curiously. 

For an instant they saw him smiling mockingly at him- 
j self; then he answered lightly, “Try some other fool experi¬ 
ment, I reckon.’’" . - / . 

Stanford chuckled; the reply, was so like the cowboy 
Patches, and so unlike his old friend, Larry Knight. 

“As for that, Stan,” Patches continued, “I don’t see that 
the game will ever be played out, as you say. Certainly I 
can never now go back altogether to what I was. The fellow 
you used to know in Cleveland is not? really I, you see. Fact 
is, I think that fellow is quite dead—peace be to his ashes! 
The world is wide and there is always work for a man to do.” 

The appearance of Phil Acton on the ridge, at the spot 
where the steer, followed b;^ Patches, bad first appeared, put 
an end to their further conversation with Lawrence Knight. 

“My boss!” said that gentleman, in his character of 
Patches the cowboy, as the Cross-Triangle foreman halted his 
horse on the brow of the hill, and sat looking down upon 
the camp. 


275 





WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


“Be careful, please, and don’t let him suspect that you 
ever saw me before. I’ll sure catch it now for loafing so 
long.” 

“I know him,” said Stanford. Then he called to the man 
above, “Come on down, Acton, and be sociable.” 

Phil rode into camp, shook hands with Stanford cordially, 
and was presented to Mrs. Manning, to whom he spoke with 
a touch of embarrassment. Then he said, with a significant 
look at Patches, “I’m glad to meet you people, Mr. Manning, 
but we really haven’t much time for sociability just now. 
Mr. Baldwin sent me with an outfit into this Granite Basin 
country to gather some of these outlaw steers. He expects 
us to be on the job.” Turning to Patches, he continued, 
“When you didn’t come back I thought you must have met 
with some serious trouble, and so trailed you. We’ve man¬ 
aged to lose a good deal of time, altogether. That steer you 
were after got away from you, did he ?” 

Helen spoke quickly. “Oh, Mr. Acton, you must not 
blame Mr. Patches for what happened. Keally, you must 
not. No one was to blame; it just happened—” She stopped, 
unable to finish the explanation, for she was thinking of 
that part of the incident which was known only to herself 
and Patches. 

Stanford told in a few words of his wife’s danger and 
how the cowboy had saved her. 

“That was mighty good work, Patches,” said Phil heart¬ 
ily, “mighty good work. I’m sorry, Mr. Manning, that our 
coming up here after these outlaws happened at just this 
time. It is too bad to so disturb you and Mrs. Manning. 

276 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


We are going home Friday, however, and I’ll tell the boys 
to keep clear of your neighborhood in the meantime.” 

As the two Cross-Triangle men walked toward their 
1 horses, Helen and Stanford heard Phil ask, “But where is 
that steer, Patches ?” 

“I let him go,” returned Patches. 

“You let him go!” exclaimed the foreman. “After you 
had him roped and tied ? What did you do that for ?” 

Patches was confused. “Really, I don’t know.” 

“I’d like to know what you figure we’re up here for,” 
said Phil, sharply. “You not only waste two or three hours 
visiting with these people, but you take my time trailing you 
up; and then you turn loose a steer after you get him. It 
looks like you’d lost your head mighty bad, after all.” 

“I’m afraid you’re right, Phil,” Patches answered 
quietly. 

Helen looked at her husband indignantly but Stanford 
was grinning with delight. 

“To think,” he murmured, “of Larry Knight taking a 
dressing-down like that from a mere cowboy foreman!” 

But Patches was by no means so meek in spirit as he 
appeared in his outward manner. He had been driven almost 
to the verge of desperation by the trying situation, and was 
fighting for self-control. To take his foreman’s rebuke in 
the presence of his friends was not easy. 

“I reckon I’d better send you to the home ranch to-night, 
instead of Bob,” continued Phil, as the two men mounted 
their horses and sat for a moment facing each other. “It 
looks like we could spare you best. Tell Uncle Will to send 

277 




WHE1ST A MAH’S A MAW 


the chuck wagon and three more punchers, and that we’ll 
start for the home ranch Friday. And be sure that you get 
back here to-morrow.” 

“Shall I go now ?” 

“Yes, you can go now.” 

Patches wheeled his horse and rode away, while Phil 
disappeared over the ridge in the direction from which he 
had come. 

When the two cowboys were out of sight, Helen went 
straight to her husband, and to Stanford’s consternation, 
when he took her in his arms, she was crying. 

“Why, girl, what is it ?” he asked, holding her close. 

But she only answered between sobs as she clung to 
him, “It—it’s nothing—never mind, Stan. I’m just upset.” 

And Stanford quite naturally thought it was only a case 
of nerves caused by the danger through which she had passed. 

For nearly an hour, Patches rode toward the home ranch, 
taking only such notice of his surroundings as was necessary 
in order for him to keep his direction. Through the brush 
and timber, over the ridges down into valleys and washes, 
and along the rock-strewn mountain sides he allowed his 
horse to pick the way, and take his own gait, with scarcely 
a touch of rein or spur. 

The twrilight hour was beginning when he reached a point 
from which he could see, in the distance, the red roofs of 
the Cross-Triangle buildings. Checking his horse, he sat 
for a long time, motionless, looking away over the broad land 
that had come to mean so much to him, as though watching 
the passing of the day. 


278 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


But the man did not note the changing colors in the 
western sky; he did not see the shadows deepening; he was 
not thinking of the coming of the night. The sight of the 
distant spot that, a year before, had held such possibilities 
for him, when, on the summit of the Divide, he had chosen 
between two widely separated ways of life, brought to him, 
now, a keener realization of the fact that he was again placed 
where he must choose. The sun was down upon those hopes 
and dreams that in the first hard weeks of his testing had 
inspired and strengthened him. The night of despairing, 
reckless abandonment of the very ideals of manhood for which 
he had so bravely struggled was upon him; while the spirit 
and strength of that manhood which he had so hardly attained 
fought against its surrender. 

When Stanford Manning had asked, “What will you do 
when your game of Patches is played out ?” he had said that 
the man whom they had known in the old days was dead. 
Would this new man also die ? Deliberately the man turned 
! about and started back the way he had come. 

In their honeymoon camp, that evening, when the only 
light in the sky was the light of the stars, and the camp fire’s 
ruddy flames made weird shadows come and go in the little 
glade, Helen, lying in the hammock, and Stanford, sitting 
near, talked of their old friend Lawrence Knight. But as 
they talked they did not know that a lonely horseman had 
stopped on the other side of the low ridge, and leaving his 
horse, had crept carefully through the brush, to a point on 
the brow of the hill, from which he could look down into 
the camp. 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

Erom where he lay in the darkness, the man could see 
against the camp fire’s light the two, where the hammock was 
swung under the trees. He could hear the low murmur of 
their voices, with now and then a laugh. But it was always 
the man who laughed, for there was little mirth in Helen’s 
heart that night. Then he saw Stanford go into the tent 
and return again to the hammock; and soon there came 
floating up to him the sweet, plaintive music of Helen’s 
guitar, and then her voice, full and low, with a wealth of 
womanhood in every tone, as she sang a love song to her mate. 
Later, when the dancing flames of the camp fire had fallen 
to a dull red glow, he saw them go arm in arm. into their 
tent. Then all was still. The red glow of the fire dimmed 
to a spark, and darkness drew close about the scene. But 
even in the darkness the man could still see, under the wide, 
sheltering arms of the trees, a lighter spot—the white tent. 

“Gethsemane,” said the Dean to me once, when our talk 
had ranged wide and touched upon many things, “Gethsem- ; 
ane ain’t no place; it’s somethin’ that happens. Whenever 
a man goes up against himself, right there is where Gethsem- | 
ane is. And right there, too, is sure to be a fight. A man 
may not always know about it at the time; he may be too l 
busy flightin’ to understand just what it all means; but he’ll 
know about it afterwards— No matter which side of him 
wins, he’ll know afterwards that it was the one big fight of 



280 


. r 




Jggp^' 

AT MINT SPRING. 

j KEH those days at Prescott were over, and Mr. and K -v~- 
Mrs. Manning had left for their camp in Granite 
Basin, Kitty Reid returned to "Williamson Valley 
reluctantly. She felt that with Phil definitely out 
of her life the last interest that bound her to the scenes 
of her girlhood was broken. Before many weeks the 
ranch would be sold. A Prescott .agent had opened negotia¬ 
tions for an eastern client who would soon be out to look 
over the property; and Mr. Reid felt, from all that the 
agent had said, that the sale was assured. In the meantime 
Kitty would wait as patiently as she could. To help her, 
there would be Helen’s visit, and there was her friendship 
with Professor Parkhill. It was not strange, considering all 
the circumstances, that the young woman should give her 
time more generously than ever to the only person in the 
neighborhood, except Patches, perhaps, who she felt could 
understand and appreciate her desires for that higher life of 
which even her ov,n parents were ignorant. 

And the professor did understand her fully. He told her 


2S1 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


so many times each day. Had he not given all the years of 
his little life to the study of those refining and spiritualizing 
truths that are so far above the comprehension of the base 
and ignoble common herd ? Indeed, he understood her lan¬ 
guage ; he understood fully, why the sordid, brutal material¬ 
ism of her crude and uncultured environment so repulsed 
and disgusted her. He understood, more fully than Kitty 
herself, in fact, and explained to her clearly, that her desires 
for the higher intellectual and spiritual life were born of her 
own rare gifts, and evidenced beyond all question the fineness 
and delicacy of her nature. He rejoiced with her—with a 
pure and holy joy—that she was so soon to be set free to live 
amid the surroundings that would afford her those oppor¬ 
tunities for the higher development of her intellectual and 
spiritual powers which her soul craved. All this he told her 
from day to day; and then, one afternoon, he told her more. 

It was the same afternoon that Patches had so unex¬ 
pectedly found Helen and Stanford in their Granite Basiu 
camp. Kitty and. the professor had driven in the buckboard 
to Simmons for the mail, and were coming back by the road 
to the Cross-Triangle, when the man asked, “Must we return 
to the ranch so soon ? It is so delightful out here where 
there is no one to intrude with vulgar commonplaces, to mar 
our companionship.” 

“Why, no,” returned Kitty. “There is no need for us 
to hurry home.” She glanced around. “We might sit over 
there, under those cedars on the hill, where you found me 
with Mr. Patches that day—the day we saw Yavapai Joe, 
you remember.” 


282 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“If you think it quite safe to leave the vehicle,” he said, 
“I should be delighted.” 

Kitty tied the horses to a convenient bush at the foot of 
the low hill, and soon they were in the welcome shade of the 
cedars. 

“Miss Keid,” the professor began, with portentous 
gravity, “I must confess that I have been rather puzzled to 
account for your presence here that day with such a man 
as that fellow Patches. You will pardon my saying so, I am 
sure, but you must have observed my very deep interest in 
you. I also chanced to see you with him one day in Prescott, 
in the park. You don’t mind my speaking of it ?” 

“Not at all, Professor Parkhill,” Kitty returned, smiling 
as she thought how ignorant the professor was of the cow¬ 
boy’s real character. “I like Patches. lie interests me very 
much; and there is really no reason why I should not be 
friendly with him. Don’t you think that I should be kind 
to our cowboys?” 

“I suppose so,” the professor sighed. “But it hurts me 
to see you have anything whatever in common with such a 
man. It shocks me to know that you must, in any degree, 
come in touch with such fellows. I shall be very glad, 
indeed, when you are free from any such kindly obligations, 
and safe among those of your own class.” 

Kitty found it very hard to reply. She did not wish to 
be disloyal to Patches and her many Williamson Valley 
friends; nor did she like to explain how Patches had played 
a part for the professor’s benefit, for she felt that by not 
exposing the deception she had, in a way, been a party to it. 




WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


So she said nothing, but seemed to be silently weighing the 
value o± Her learned companion’s observations. At least, it 
so appeared to the professor, and in her ready acceptance of 
bis implied criticism of aer conduct be found the encourage¬ 
ment be needed for that which followed. 

“You must understand, Miss Reid, that I have become ; 
exceedingly zealous for your welfare. In these months that J 
we have been so much together your companionship—your 
spiritual and intellectual companionship, I should say—has J 
come to be very dear to me. As our souls have communed, | 
I have felt myself uplifted and inspired, I have been \ 
strengthened and encouraged, as never before, to climb on ** 
toward the mountain peaks of pure intellectuality. If I am J 
not mistaken, you, too, have felt a degree of uplift as a -j 
result of our fellowship, have you not?” 

“Yes, indeed, Professor Parkhill,” Kitty answered -sin- 
merely. “Our talks together have meant much more to me | 

than I can tell. I shall never forget this summer. Your 

° I 

friendship has been a wonderful influence in my life.” 

The little man moved uneasily and glanced timidly J 
around. “1 am truly glad to know that our companionship 
has noj been altogether distasteful to you; I felt sure that 
it was not, but I—ahem!—I am glad to hear your confirma¬ 
tion of my opinion. It—ah—it enables me to say that which 
for several weeks past has been weighing heavily on my 
mind.” 

Kitty looked at him with the manner of a trusting dis¬ 
ciple waiting for the gems of truth that were about to fall 
from the lips of a venerable teacher. 


284 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Miss Reid—ah—why need our beautiful and mutually 
profitable companionship cease?” 

“I fear that I do not understand, Professor Parkhill,” 
she answered, puzzled by his question. 

He looked at her with just a shade of mild—very mild— 
rebuke, as he returned, “Why, I think that I have stated my 
thought clearly. I mean that I am very desirous that our 
relation—the relation which we both have found so helpful— 
should continue. I am sure that we have, in these months 
which we have spent together, sufficient evidence that our 
souls vibrate in perfect harmony. I need you, dear friend; 
your understanding of my soul’s desires is so sympathetic; 
I feel that you so complement and fill out, as it were, my 
spiritual self. I need you to encourage, to inspire, to assist 
me in the noble work to which I am devoting all my 
strength.” 

She looked at him, now, with an expression of amaze¬ 
ment. “Ho you mean—” she faltered in confusion while the 
red blood colored her cheeks. 

“Yes,” he answered, confidently. “I am asking you to 
be my wife. Not, however,” he added hastily, “in the com¬ 
mon, vulgar understanding of that relation. I am offering 
you, dear friend, that which is vastly higher than the union 
of the merely animal, which is based wholly upon the purely 
physical and material attraction. I am proposing marriage 
of our souls—a union, if you please, of our higher intellectual 
and spiritual selves. I feel, indeed, that by those higher 
laws which the vulgar, beastlike minds are incapable of 
recognizing, we are already one. I sense, a3 it were, that 


285 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


oneness which can exist only when two souls are mated by 
the great over-soul; I feel that you are already mine—that 
I am—that we are already united in a spiritual union that 
is—” 

The young woman checked him with a gesture, which, 
had he interpreted it rightly, was one of repulsion. “Please 
stop, Professor Parkhill,” she gasped in a tone of disgust. 

He was surprised, and not a little chagrined. “Am I to 
understand that you do not reciprocate my sentiment, Miss 
Reid ? Is it possible that I have been so mistaken V 9 

Kitty turned her head, as though she could not bear even 
to look at him. “What you ask is so impossible,” she said 
in a low tone. “Impossible!” 

Strive as she might, the young woman could not alto- v 
gether hide her feeling of abhorrence. And yet, she asked 
herself, why should this man’s proposal arouse in her .such 
antagonism and repugnance? He was a scholar, famed for 
his attainments in the world of the highest culture. As his 
wife, she would be admitted at once into the very inner 
circle of that life to which she aspired, and for which she 
was leaving her old home and friends. He had couched his 
proposal in the very terms of the spiritually and intellectually 
elect; he had declared himself in that language which she 
had so proudly thought she understood, and in which she 
had so often talked with him; and yet she was humiliated 
and ashamed. It was, to her, as though, in placing his offer 
of marriage upon the high, pure ground of a spiritual union, 
he had insulted her womanhood. Kitty realized wonder- 
ingly that she had not felt like this when Phil had confessed 


286 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

his love for her. In her woman heart, she was proud and 
glad to have won the love of such a man as Phil, even though 
she could not accept the cowboy as her mate. On that very 
spot which the professor had chosen for his declaration, 
Patches had told her that she was leaving the glorious and 
enduring realities of life for vain and foolish bubbles—that 
she was throwing aside the good grain and choosing the 
husks. Was this what Patches meant ? she wondered. 

“I regret exceedingly, Miss Keid,” the professor was say¬ 
ing, “that the pure and lofty sentiments which I have voiced 
do not seem to find a like response in your soul. I—” 

Again she interrupted him with that gesture of repulsion. 
“Please do not say any more, Professor Parkhill. I—I fear 
that I am very human, after all. Come, it is time that we 
were returning to the house.” 

All through the remaining hours of that afternoon and 
evening Kitty was disturbed and troubled. At times she 
wanted to laugh at the professor’s ridiculous proposal; and 
again, her cheeks burned with anger; and she could have 
cried in her shame and humiliation. And with it all her 
mind was distraught by the persistent question: Was not 
the professor’s conception of an ideal mating the legitimate 
and logical conclusion of those very advanced ideas of culture 
which he represented, and which she had so much admired ? 
If she sincerely believed the life represented by the professor 
and his kind so superior—so far above the life represented 
by Phil Acton—why should she not feel honored instead of 
being so humiliated and shamed by the professor’s—she 
could not (call it love? If the life which Phil had asked hei 


287 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


£v> share was so low in the scale of civilization; if it were 
so far beneath the intellectual and spiritual ideals which she 
had formed, why did she feel so honored by the strong man’s 
love? Why had she not felt humiliated and ashamed that 
Phil should want her to mate with him ? Could it be, she 
asked herself again and again, that there was something, 
after all, superior to that culture which she had so truly 
thought stood for the highest ideals of the race? Could it 
be that, in the land of Granite Mountain, there was some¬ 
thing, after all, that was as superior to the things she had 
been taught as Granite Mountain itself was superior in its 
primeval strength and enduring grandeur to the man-made 
buildings of her school ? 

It was not strange that Kitty’s troubled thoughts should 
turn to Helen Manning. Clearly, Helen’s education had 
led to no confusion. On the contrary, she had found an 
ideal love, and a happiness such as every true, womanly 
woman must, in her heart of hearts, desire. 

It was far into the night when Kitty, wakeful and rest¬ 
less, heard the sound of a horse’s feet. She could not know 
that it was Honorable Patches riding past on his way to 
the ranch on the other side cf the broad valley meadows. . 

Weary in body, and with mind and spirit exhausted by 
the trials through which he had passed, Patches crept to \ 
his bed. In the morning, when he delivered his message, the 
Dean, seeing the man’s face, urged him to stay for the day at 
the ranch. But Patches said no; Phil was expecting him, and 
he must return to the outfit in Granite Basin. As soon as 
breakfast was over he set out. 


288 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

He had ridden as far as the head ©f Mint Wash, and had 
stopped to water his horse, and to refresh himself with a 
cool drink and a brief rest beside the fragrant mint-bordered 
spring, when he heard someone riding rapidly up the wash 
the way he had come. A moment later, Kitty, riding her 
favorite Midnight, rounded a jutting corner of the rocky wall 
of the bluff. 

As the girl caught sight of him, there beside the spring, 
she waved her hand in greeting. And the man, as he waved 
his answer, and watched her riding toward him, felt a thrill 
of gladness that she had come. The strong, true friendship 
that began with their very first meeting, when she had been 
so frankly interested in the tenderfoot, and so kindly helpful, 
and which had developed so steadily through the year, gave 
him, now, a feeling of comfort and relief. Wearied and 
worn by his disappointment and by his struggle with himself, 
with the cherished hope that had enabled him to choose and 
endure the hard life of the range brought to a sudden end, 
with his life itself made so empty and futile, he welcomed 
his woman friend with a warmth and gladness that brought 
a flush of pleasure to Kitty’s cheek. 

For Kitty, too, had just passed through a humiliating 
and disappointing experience. In her troubled frame of 
mind, and in her perplexed and confused questioning, the 
young woman was as glad for the companionship of Patches 
as he was glad to welcome her. She felt a curious sense of 
relief and safety in his presence—somewhat as one, who, 
walking over uncertain bogs or treacherous quicksands, finds, 
^ at once, the solid ground. 


289 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“I saw you go past the house,” she said, when she reached 
the spring where he stood awaiting her, “and I decided right 
then that I would go along with you to Granite Basin and 
visit my friends the Mannings. They told me that I might 
come this week, and I think they have had quite enough 
honeymooning, anyway. You know where they are camped, 
do you ?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “I saw them yesterday. But, 
come! Get down and cool off a bit. You’ve been riding 
some, haven’t you ?” 

“I wanted to catch you as soon as I could,” she laughed, 
as she sprang lightly to the ground. “And you see you 
gained a good start while I was getting Midnight saddled. 
What a pretty spot! I must have a drink of that water this ,| 
minute.” 

“Sorry I have no cup,” he said, and then he laughed 
with the pleasure of good comradeship as she answered: 

“You forget that I was born to the customs of this 
country.” And, throwing aside her broad hat, she went 
down on the ground to drink from the spring, even as he 
had done. 

As the man watched her, a sudden thought flashed into 
his mind—a thought so startling, so unexpected, that he was 
for the moment bewildered. 

“Talk about the nectar of the gods!” cried Kitty with a 
deep breath of satisfaction, as she lifted her smiling face 
from the bright water to look up at him. And then she 
drank again. 

“And now, if you please, sir, you may bring me some 


290 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


of that water-cress; we’ll sit over there in the shade, and who 
cares whether Granite Basin, the Mannings, and your fellow 
cow T -pnnchers, are fifteen or fifty miles away?” 

He brought a generous bunch of the water-cress, and 
stretched himself full length beside her, as she sat on the 
ground under a tall sycamore. 

“Selah!” he laughed contentedly. “We seem to lack only 
the book of verses, the loaf and the jug; the wilderness is 
here, all right, and that’s a perfectly good bough up there, 
and, of course, you could furnish the song; I might recite 
‘The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,’ but, alas! we haven’t 
even a flask and biscuit.” 

“What a pity that you should be so near and yet so far 
from paradise!” she retorted quickly. Then she added, with 
a mischievous smile, “It just happens that I have a sand¬ 
wich in my saddle pocket.” 

“Won’t you sing? Please do,” he returned, with an 
eagerness that amused her. 

But she shook her head reprovingly. “We would still 
lack the jug of wine, you know, and, really, I don’t think 
that paradise is for cow-punchers, anyway, do you ?” 

“Evidently not,” he answered. And at her jesting words 
a queer feeling of rebellion possessed him. Why should he 
be condemned to years of loneliness? Why must he face a 
life without the companionship of a mate ? If the paradise 
he had sought so hard to attain were denied him, why should 
he not still take what happiness he might ? 

He was lying flat on his back, his hands clasped beneath 
his head, watching an eagle that wheeled, a tiny black speck, 


291 




WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


high under the blue arch of the sky. He seemed to have 
forgotten his companion. 

Kitty leaned toward him, and held a sprig of water-cress 
over his upturned face. “I haven’t a penny,” she said, “but ; 
I’ll give you this.” 

He sat up quickly. “Even at that price, my thoughts J 
might cost you too much. But you haven’t told me what you | 
have done with our dear friend the professor ? Haven’t you ! 
a guilty conscience, deserting him like this ?” 

Kitty held up both hands in a gesture of dismay. “Don’t, | 
Patches, please don’t. Ugh! if you only knew how good it is 
to be with a man again!” 

He laughed aloud in a spirit of reckless defiance. “And 
Phil is over in Granite Basin. I neglected to tell you that ' 
he knows the location of the Mannings’ camp, as well as I.” f 

Kitty was a little puzzled by the tone of his laughter, 
and by his words. She spoke gravely. “Perhaps I should 
tell you, Patches—we have been such good friends, you and 
I—Phil—” 

“Yes!” he said. 

“Phil is nothing to me, Patches. I mean—” 

“You mean in the way he wanted to be?” He helped 
her with a touch of eager readiness. 

“Yes.” 

“And have you told him, Kitty ?” Patches asked gently. 

“Yes—I have told him,” she replied. 

Patches was silent for a moment. Then, “Poor Phil!” 
he said softly. “I understand now ; I thought that was it. 
He is a man among thousands, Kitty.” 


292 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

“I know—I know/’ she returned, as though to dismiss 
the subject. “But it simply couldn’t be.” 

Patches was looking at her intently, with an expression 
in his dark eyes that Kitty had never before seen. The 
i man’s mind was in a whirl of quick excitement. As they 
* had talked and laughed together, the thought that had so 
startled him, when her manner of familiar comradeship had 
brought such a feeling of comfort to his troubled spirit, had 
not left him. From that first moment of their meeting a 
j year before there had been that feeling between them of 
companionship, a feeling which had grown as their acquaint¬ 
ance had developed into the intimate friendship that had 
allowed him to speak to her as he had spoken that day under 
the cedars on the ridge. What might that friendship not 
| grow into! Tie thought of her desire for the life that he 
knew so w T ell, and how he could, while granting every wish 
! of her heart, yet protect her from the shams and falseness. 
And with these thoughts was that feeling of rebellion against 
the loneliness of his life. 

Kitty’s words regarding Phil removed the barrier, as it 
were, and the man’s nature, which prompted him so often 
to act without pausing to consider, betrayed him into saying, 
“Would you be greatly shocked, Kitty, if I were to tell you 
that I am glad ? That, while I am sorry for Phil, I am glad 
that you have said no to him ?” 

“You are glad?” she said wonderingly. “Why?” 

“'Because, now, 7 am free to say what I could not have 
said had you not told me what you have. I want you, Kitty. 
I want to fill your life with beauty and happiness and con- 

293 



WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


tentment. I want you to go with me to see and know the 
natural wonders of the world, and the wonders that men 
have wrought. I want to surround you with the beauties of 
art and literature, with everything that your heart craves. I 
I want you to know the people whose friendship would be a 
delight to you. Come with me, girl—be my wife, and 
together we will find—if not paradise, at least a full and l 
useful and contented and happy life. Will you come, Kitty ? 
Will you come with me?" 

As she listened her eyes grew big with wonder and r 
delight. It was as though some good genie had suddenly | 
opened wide the way to an enchanted land. Then the glad¬ 
ness went swiftly from her face, and she said doubtingly, | 
“You are jesting with me, Patches." 

As she spoke his cowboy name, the man laughed aloud. | 
“I forgot that you do not even know me—I mean, that you 
do not know my name." 

“Are you some fairy prince in disguise, Sir Patches ?" 

“Not a fairy, dear, and certainly not a prince; just a 
man, that's all. But a man, dear girl, who can offer you 
a clean life, an honored name, and all of which I have 
spoken. But I must tell you—I always knew that I would 
tell you some day, but I did not dream that it would be 
to-day. My name is Lawrence Knight. My home is in 
Cleveland, Ohio. Your father can easily satisfy himself as 
to my family and my own personal life and standing. It is 
enough for me to assure you now, dear, that I am abundantly 
able to give you all that I have promised." 

At the mention of his name, Kitty’s eyes grew bright 
294 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


again. Thanks to her intimate friend and schoolmate, Helen 
Manning, she knew much more of Lawrence Knight than 
that gentleman supposed. 

“But, tell me,” she asked curiously, trembling with sup¬ 
pressed excitement, “why is Mr. Lawrence Knight masquer¬ 
ading here as the cowboy Honorable Patches?” 

He answered earnestly. “I know it must seem strange 
to you, dear, but the simple truth is that I became ashamed 
of myself and my life of idle uselessness. I determined to 
jsee if I could take my place among men, simply as a man. 
I wanted to he accepted by men for myself, for my manhood, 
if you like, and not because of my—” he hesitated, then 
said frankly—“my money and social position. I wanted to 
depend upon myself—to live as other men live, by my own 
strength and courage and work. If I had given my real 
name, when I asked for work at the Cross-Triangle—someone 
w T ould have found me out before very long, and my little 
experiment would have failed, don’t you see ?” 

While he spoke, Kitty’s excited mind had caught at many 
thoughts. She believed sincerely that her girlhood love for 
Phil was dead. This man, even as Patches the cowboy, with 
a questionable shadow on his life, had compelled her respect 
and confidence, while in his evident education and social 
culture he had won her deepest admiration. She felt that 
he was all that Phil was, and more. There was in her feeling 
toward him, as he offered himself to her now, no hint of 
that instinctive repulsion and abhorrence with which she had 
received Professor Parkhill’s declaration of spiritual affinity. 
Her recent experience with the Master of Aesthetics had so 

295 



WHEN- A MAN’S A MAN 


outraged her womanly instincts that the inevitable reaction 
from her perplexed and troubled mind led her to feel more 
deeply, and to be drawn more strongly, toward this man with 
whom any woman might be proud to mate. At the same 
time, the attractions of the life which she knew he could 
give her, and for which she longed so passionately, with the 
relief of the thought that her parents would not need to | 
sacrifice themselves for her, were potent factors in the power 
of Lawrence Knight’s appeal. 

“It would be wonderful,” she said musingly. “I have 
dreamed and dreamed about such things.” 

“You will come with me, dear? You will let me give 
you your heart’s wish—you will go with me into the life for 
which you are so fitted ?” 

“Do you really want me, Patches ?” she asked timidly, 
as though in her mind there was still a shadow of doubt. 

“More than anything in the world,” he urged. “Say yes. 
Kitty. Say that you will be my wife.” 

The answer came softly, with a hint of questioning, still. , 

“Yes.” 

Kitty did not notice that the man had not spoken of his 
love for her. There were so many other things for her to 
consider, so many other things to distract her mind. Nor 
did the man notice that Kitty herself had failed to speak in 
any way that little word, which, rightly understood, holds in 
its fullest, deepest meaning, all of life’s happiness—of labor 
and accomplishment—of success and triumph—of sacrifice 
and sorrow; holds, in its fullest, deepest meaning, indeed, 
all of life itself. 

296 


( 



CHAPTER 

ON CEDAR RIDGE 





ITTY’S friends were very glad to welcome her at 
their camp in Granite Basin. The incident which 
had so rudely broken the seclusion of their honey¬ 
moon had been too nearly a tragedy to be easily 
forgotten. The charm of the place was, in some degree, 
for them, lost, and Kitty’s coming helped to dispel the 
cloud that had a little overshadowed those last days of their 
outing. 

It was not at all difficult for them to persuade Kitty to 
remain longer than the one night that she had planned, and 
to accompany them to Prescott. Prom Prescott, Stanford 
must go to the mines, to take up his work, and to arrange 
for Helen’s coming later, and Helen would go home with 
Kitty for the visit she had promised. The cowboys, who 
were returning to the Cross-Triangle Ranch, would take 
Kitty’s horse to her home, and would carry a message explain¬ 
ing the young woman’s absence, and asking that someone be 
sent to Prescott with the clothing she would need in town, 
and that the Reid atYomobile might be in Prescott in readi- 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

ness to take the two young women back to the ranch on the 
appointed day. 

Kitty could not bring herself to tell even Helen about her 
engagement to Lawrence Knight, or Patches, as she would 
continue to call him until the time came for the cowboy him¬ 
self to make his true name and character known. It had all 
happened so suddenly; the promises of the future were so 
wonderful—so far beyond the young woman’s fondest dreams 
—that she herself could scarcely realize the truth. There 
would be time enough to tell Helen w T hen they were together 
at the ranch. And she was insistent, too, that Patches must 
not interview her father until she herself had returned home. 

Phil and his cowboys with the cattle reached the Cross- 
Triangle corrals the evening before the day set for Kitty 
and Helen to arrive at the ranch on the other side of the 
valley meadows. The Cross-Triangle men were greeted by 
the news that Professor Parkhill had said good-by to William¬ 
son Valley, and that the Pot-IIook-S Ranch had been sold. 
The eastern purchaser expected by Reid had arrived on the 
day that Kitty had gone to Granite Basin, and the deal had 
been closed without delay. But Reid was not to give posses¬ 
sion of the property until after the fall rodeo. 

As the men sat under the walnut trees with the Dean that 
evening, discussing the incidents of the Granite Basin work, 
and speculating about the new owner of the neighboring 
ranch, Phil sat with Little Billy apart from the circle, and 
contributed to the conversation only now and then a word or 
a brief answer to some question. When Mrs. Baldwin per¬ 
suaded the child that it was bedtime, Phil slipped quietly 

298 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


away in the darkness, and they did not see him again until 
breakfast the next morning. When breakfast was over, the 
foreman gave a few directions to his men, and rode away 

alone. 

| The Dean, understanding the lad, whom he loved as one 
of his own sons, watched him go without a word or a question. 
To Mrs. Baldwin he said, “Just let him alone^ Stella. The 
boy is all right. He’s only gone off somewhere on the range 
to fight it out alone. Most likely he’ll put in the day watch¬ 
ing those wild horses over beyond Toohey. He generally 
goes to them when he’s bothered about anything or in trouble 
of any sort.” 

Patches, who had been sent on an errand of some kind to 
Fair Oaks, was returning home early in the afternoon, and 
had reached the neighborhood of that spring where he had 
first encountered Nick Cambert, when he heard a calf bawl¬ 
ing lustily somewhere in the cedar timber not far away. 
Familiar as he now was with the voices of the range, the cow- 
| boy knew that the calf was in trouble. The call was one of 
j fright and pain. 

Turning aside from his course, he rode, rapidly at first, 
j then more cautiously, toward the sound. Presently he caught 
a whiff of smoke that came "with the light breeze from some¬ 
where ahead on the ridge along which he was riding. In¬ 
stantly he rode into a thick clump of cedars, and, dismount¬ 
ing, tied his horse. Then he went on, carefully and silently, 
on foot. Soon he heard voices. Again the calf bawled in 
fright and pain and the familiar odor of burning hair was 
carried to him on the breeze. Someone was branding a calf. 


299 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


It might, be all right—it might not. Patches was un¬ 
armed, but, with characteristic disregard of consequences, he 
crept softly forward, toward a dense growth of trees and 
brush, from beyond which the noise and the smoke seemed 
to come. 

He had barely gained the cover when he heard someone 4 
on the other side ride rapidly away down the ridge. Hastily 
parting the bushes, he looked through to catch a glimpse of 
the horseman, but he was a moment too late; the rider had ; 
disappeared from sight in the timber. But, in a little open 
space among the cedars, the cowboy saw Yavapai Joe, stand- ; 
ing beside a calf, fresh-branded with the Eour-Bar-M iron, 
and earmarked with the Tailholt marks. 

Patches knew instantly, as well as though he had wit-1 
nessed the actual branding, what had happened. That part 
of the range was seldom visited except by the Dean’s cowboys, 
and the Tailholt Mountain men, knowing that the Cross- l 
Triangle riders were all at Granite Basin, were making good ) 
use of their opportunities. The man who had ridden away * 
so hurriedly, a. moment too soon for Patches to see him, was, f 
without doubt, driving the mother of the calf to a distance ? 
that would effectually separate her from her offspring. 

But while he was so sure in his own mind, the Cross- 
Triangle man—as it had so often happened before—had ar¬ 
rived on the scene too late. He had no positive evidence that ! 
the animal just branded was not the lawful property of Nick 
Cambert. 

As Patches stepped from the bushes, Yavapai Joe faced [ 


300 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


him for a moment in guilty astonishment and fear; then he 
; ran toward his horse. 

“Wait a minute, Joe!” called Patches. “What good will 
it do for you to run now ? I’m not going to harm you.” 

Joe stopped, and stood hesitating in indecision, watching 
! the intruder with that sneaking, sidewise look. 

“Come on, Joe; let’s have a little talk about this business,” 
the Cross-Triangle man said in a matter-of-fact tone, as he 
seated himself on a large, flat-topped stone near the little 
fire. “You know you can’t get away, so you might as well.” 

“I ain’t tailin’ nothin’ to nobody,” said Joe sullenly, as 
he came slowly toward the Dean’s cowboy. 

“No ?” said Patches. 

“No, I ain’t,” asserted the Tailholt Mountain man stoutly. 

! “That there calf is a Four-Bar-M calf, all right.” 

“I see it is,” returned the Cross-Triangle rider calmly. 

| “But I’ll just wait until Nick gets back, and ask him what 
i it was before he worked over the iron.” 

Joe, excited and confused by the cool nerve of this man, 
fell readily into the verbal trap. 

“You better go now, an’ not wait to ask Nick no fool 
questions like that. If he finds you here talkin’ with me 
when he gets back, hell’ll be a-poppin’ fer sure. Me an’ you 
are friends, Patches, an’ that’s why I’m a-tellin’ you you 
better pull your freight while the goin’s good.” 

“Much obliged, Joe, but there’s no hurry. You don’t 
need to be so rushed. It will be an hour before Nick gets 
back, if he drives that cow as far as he ought.” 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Again poor Yavapai Joe told mere than lie intended. 
“You don’t need to worry none ’bout Hick; be’ll sure drive 
her far enough. He ain’t takin’ no chances, Hick ain’t.” 

With his convictions so readily confirmed, Patches had 
good ground upon which to base his following remarks. He 
had made a long shot when he spoke so confidently of the " 
brand on the calf being worked over. For, of course, the calf 
might not have been branded at all when the Tailholt Moun- , 
tain men caught it. But Joe’s manner, as well as his warn¬ 
ing answer, told that the shot had gone home. The fact that 
the brand had been worked over established also the fact that i 
it was the Cross-Triangle brand that had been changed, be- ; 
cause the Cross-Triangle was the only brand in that part of 
the country that could be changed into the Four-Bar-M. 

Patches, dropping his easy manner, and speaking straight 
to the point, said, “Look here, Joe, you and I might as w T ell 
get down to cases. You know I am your friend, and I don’t 
want to see you in trouble, but you can take it from me that 
you are in mighty serious trouble right now. I was hiding' 
right there in those bushes, close enough to see all that hap-;i 
pened, and I know that this is a Cross-Triangle calf, and that 
Hick and you worked the brand over. You know that it 
means the penitentiary for you, as well as for Hick, if the 
boys don’t string you both up without any ceremony.” 

Patches paused to let his words sink in. 

Joe’s face was ashy white, and he was shaking with fright, 
as he stole a sneaking look toward his horse. 

Patches added sharply, “You can’t give me the slip, 
either; I can kill you before you get half way to your horse.” 


302 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Trapped and helpless, Joe looked pleadingly at his captor. 
“You wouldn’t send me up, would you, now, Patches?” he 
whined. “You an’ me’s good friends, ain’t we ? Anyway he 
wouldn’t let me go to the pen, an’ the boys wouldn’t dast do 
nothin’ to me when they knew.” 

“Whom are you talking about ?” demanded Patches. 
“Nick? Don’t be a fool, Joe; Nick will be there right 
alongside of you.” 

“I ain’t meanin’ Nick; I mean him over there at the 
Cross-Triangle—Professor Parkhill. I’m a-tellin’ you that 
he wouldn’t let you do nothin’ to me.” 

“Forget it, Joe,” came the reply, without an instant’s 
hesitation. “You know as well as I do how much chance 
Professor Parkhill, or anyone else, would have, trying to 
keep the boys from making you and Nick dance on nothing, 
once they hear of this. Besides, the professor is not in th6 
valley now.” 

The poor outcast’s fright was pitiful. “You ain’t meanin’ 
that he—that he’s gone ?” he gasped. 

“Listen, Joe,” said Patches quickly. “I can do more for 
you than he could, even if he were here. You know I am 
your friend, and I don’t want to see a good fellow like you 
sent to prison for fifteen or twenty years, or, perhaps, hanged. 
But there’s only one way that I can see for me to save you. 
You must go with me to the Cross-Triangle, and tell Mr. 
Baldwin all about it, how you were just working for Nick, 
and how he made you help him do this, and all that you 
know. If you do that, we can get you off.” 

“I—I reckon you’re right, Patches,” returned the fright- 


303 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


em A weakling sullenly. “Nick has sure treated me like a 
dog^ anyway. You won’t let Nick get at me, will you, if 
I go?” 

“Nobody can get at you, Joe, if you go with me, and do 
the square thing. I’m going to take care of you myself, and 
help you to get out of this, and brace up and be a man. Come 
on; let’s be moving. I’ll turn this calf loose first, though.” 

He was bending over the calf when a noise in the brush 
caused him to stand suddenly erect. 

Joe was whimpering with terror. 

Patches said fiercely, but in a low tone, “Shut up, and 
follow my lead. Be a man, and I’ll get you out of this yet.” 

“Nick will kill us sure,” whined Joe. 

“Not if I get my hands on him first, he w T on’t,” retorted 
Patches. 

But it was with a feeling of relief that the cowboy saw 
Phil Acton ride toward them from the shelter of the timber. 

Before Patches could speak, Phil’s gun covered him, and 
the foreman’s voice rang out sharply. 

“Hands up!” 

Joe’s hands shot above his head. Patches hesitated. 

“Quick!” said Phil. 

And as Patches saw the man’s eyes over the black barrel 
of the weapon he obeyed. But as he raised his hands, a dull 
flush of anger colored his tanned face a deeper red, and his 
eyes grtrw dark with passion. He realized his situation in¬ 
stantly. The mystery that surrounded his first appearance 
when xit> had sought employment at the Cross-Triangle; the 


304 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


persistent suspicion of many of the cowboys because of his 
friendship for Yavapai Joe; his meeting with Joe which the 
professor had reported; his refusal to explain to Phil; his 
return to the ranch when everyone w 7 as away and he himself 
was supposed to be in Prescott—all these and many other 
incidents had come to their legitimate climax in his presence 
on that spot with Yavapai Joe, the smouldering fire and the 
freshly branded calf. He was unarmed, but Phil could not 
be sure of that, for many a cowboy carries his gun inside the 
jleg of his leather chaps, where it does not so easily catch in 
the brush. 

But while Patches saw it all so clearly, he was enraged 
that this man with whom he had lived so intimately should 
believe him capable of such a crime, and treat him without 
question as a common cattle thief. Phil’s coldness toward 
him, which had grown so gradually during the past three 
months, in this peremptory humiliation reached a point be- 
lyond which Patches’ patient and considerate endurance could 
not go. The man’s sense of justice was outraged; his fine 
feeling of honor was insulted. Trapped and helpless as he 
was under that menacing gun, he was possessed by a determi¬ 
nation to defend himself against the accusation, and to teach 
Phil Acton that there was a limit to the insult he would 
endure, even in the name of friendship. To this end his only 
hope was to trap his foreman with words, as he had caught 
Yavapai Joe. At a game of words Honorable Patches was 
no unskilled novice. Controlling his anger, he said coolly, 

| with biting sarcasm, while he looked at the cowboy with a 


305 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


mocking sneer, “You don’t propose to take any chances, do 
you—holding up an unarmed man ?” 

Patches saw by the flush that swept over Phil’s cheeks 
how his words bit. 

“It doesn’t pay to take chances with your kind,” retorted 
the foreman hotly. 

“No,” mocked Patches, “but it will pay big, I suppose,* 
for the great ‘Wild Horse Phil’ to be branded as a sneak and 
a coward who is afraid to face an unarmed man unless he 
can get the drop on him ?” 

Phil was goaded to madness by the cool, mocking words. 
With a reckless laugh, he slipped his weapon into the holster 
and sprang to the ground. At the same moment Patches and 
Joe lowered their hands, and Joe, unnoticed by either of the 
angry men, took a few stealthy steps toward his horse. 

Phil, deliberately folding his arms, stood looking at 
Patches. 

“I’ll just call that bluff, you sneakin’ calf stealer,” he 
said coolly. “Now, unlimber that gun of yours, and get 
busy.” 

Angry as he was, Patches felt a thrill of admiration for 
the man, and beneath his determination to force Phil Acton 
to treat him with respect, he was proud of his friend who had 
answered his sneering insinuation with such fearlessness. But 
he could not now hesitate in his plan of provoking Phil into 
disarming himself. 

“You’re something of a four-flusher yourself, aren’t you '?” 
he mocked. “You know I have no gun. Your brave pose is 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


very effective. I would congratulate you, only, you see, it 
doesn’t impress me in the least.” 

With an oath Phil snatched his gun from the holster, and 
threw it aside. 

“Have it any way you like,” he retorted, and started 
toward Patches. 

Then a curious thing happened to Honorable Patches. 
Angry as he was, he became suddenly dominated by some¬ 
thing that was more potent than his rage. 

“Stop!” he cried sharply, and with such ringing force 
that Phil involuntarily obeyed. “I can’t fight you this way, 
Phil,” he said; and the other, wondering, saw that whimsical, 
self-mocking smile on his lips. “You know as well as I do 
that you are no match for me barehanded. You couldn’t 
even touch me; you have seen Curly and the others try it 
often enough. You are as helpless in my power, now, as I 
was in yours a moment ago. I am armed now and you are 
not. I can’t fight you this way, Phil.” 

In spite of himself Phil Acton was impressed by the truth 
and fairness of Patches’ words. He recognized that an un¬ 
equal contest could satisfy neither of them, and that it made 
no difference which of the contestants had the advantage. 

“Well,” he said sarcastically, “what are you going to do 
about it ?” 

“First,” returned Patches calmly, “I am going to tell you 
how I happened to be here with Yavapai Joe.” 

“I don’t need any explanations from you. It’s some more 
of your personal business, I suppose,” retorted Phil. 


307 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Patches controlled himself. “You are going to hear the 
explanation, just the same,” he returned. “You can believe 
it or not, just as you please.” 

“And what then ?” demanded Phil. 

“Then I’m going to get a gun, and we’ll settle the rest of 
it, man to man, on equal terms, just as soon as you like,” 
answered Patches deliberately. 

Phil replied shortly. “Go ahead with your palaver. I’ll 
have to hand it to you when it comes to talk. I am not edu¬ 
cated that way myself.” 

For a moment Patches hesitated, as though on the point 
of changing his mind about the explanation. Then his sense 
of justice—justice both for Phil and himself—conquered. 

But in telling Phil how he had come upon the scene too 
late for positive proof that the freshly branded calf was the 
Dean’s property, and in explaining how, when the foreman 
arrived, he had just persuaded Joe to go with him and give 
the necessary evidence against Nick, Patches forgot the possi¬ 
ble effect of his words upon Joe himself. The two Cross-Tri¬ 
angle men w T ere so absorbed in their own affair that they had 
paid no attention to the Tailholt Mountain outcast. And Joe, 
taking advantage of the opportunity, had by this time gained 
a position beside his horse. As he heard Patches tell how 
he had no actual evidence that the calf was not Nick Cam- 
bert’s property, a look of anger and cunning darkened the 
face of Nick’s follower. He was angry at the way Patches 
had tricked him into betraying both himself and his evil 
master, and he saw a way to defeat the two cowboys and at 
the same time win Nick’s approval. Quickly the fellow 


308 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


mounted his horse, and, before they could stop him, was out 
of sight in the timber. 

“I’ve done it now,” exclaimed Patches in dismay. “I for 
! got all about Joe.” 

“I don’t think he counts for much in this game anyway/ 

| returned Phil, gruffly. 

As he spoke, the foreman turned his back to Patches and 
walked toward his gun. He had reached the'spot where the 
weapon lay on the ground, when, from the bushes to the 
right, and a little back of Patches, who stood watching his 
companion, a shot rang out with startling suddenness. 

# Patches saw Phil stumble forward, straighten for an in- 
I stant, as though by sheer power of his will, and, turning, look 
back at him. Then, as Phil fell, the unarmed cowboy leaped 
forward toward that gun on the ground. Even as he moved, 
a second shot rang out and he felt the wind of the bullet on 
his cheek. With Phil’s gun in his hand, he ran toward a 
cedar tree on the side of the open space opposite the point 
! from which the shots came, and as he ran another bullet 
whistled past. 

A man moving as Patches moved is not an easy mark. 
The same man armed, and protected by the trunk of a tree, is 
still more difficult. A moment after he had gained cover, the 
cowboy heard the clatter of a horse’s feet, near the spot from 
which the shots had come, and by the sound knew that the 
unseen marksman had chosen to retire with only half his 
evident purpose accomplished, rather than take the risk that 
had arisen with Patches’ success in turning the ambush into 
an open fight. 


300 




WHEN' A MAN'S A MAN 


As the sound of the horse’s swift rush down the side of 
the ridge grew fainter and fainter, Patches ran to Phil. 

A quick examination told him that the bullet had entered 
just under the right shoulder, and that the man, though un¬ 
conscious and, no doubt, seriously wounded, was living. 

With rude bandages made by tearing his «hirt into strips 
Patches checked the flow of blood, and bound up the wound 
as best he could. Then for a moment he considered. It was 
between three and four miles to the ranch. He could ride 
there and back in a few minutes. Someone must start for a 
doctor without an instant’s loss of time. With water, proper 
bandages and stimulants, the wounded man could be cared 
for and moved in the buckboard with much greater safety 
than he could be carried in his present condition on a horse. 
The risk of leaving him for a few minutes was small, com¬ 
pared to the risk of taking him to the house under the only 
conditions possible. The next instant Patches was in Phil’s 
saddle and riding as he had never ridden before. 



Ov - 


Jim Reid, with Kitty and Helen, was on the way back 
from Prescott as Kitty had planned. They were within ten 
miles of the ranch when the cattleman, who sat at the wheel 
of the automobile, saw a horseman coming toward them. A 
moment he watched the approaching figure, then, over his 
shoulder, he said to the girls, “Look at that fellow ride. 
There’s something doin’, sure.” As he spoke he turned the 
machine well out of the road. 


310 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


A moment later he added, “It’s Curly Elson from the 
! Cross-Triangle. Somethin’s happened in the valley.” As 
he spoke, he stopped the machine, and sprang out so that the 
cowboy could see and recognize him. 

Curly did not draw rein until he was within a few feet 
of Reid; then he brought his running horse up with a sud¬ 
denness that threw the animal on its haunches. 

Curly spoke tersely. “Phil Acton is shot. We need a 
doctor quick.” 

Without a word Jim Reid leaped into the automobile. 
The car backed to turn around. As it paused an instant be- 
liore starting forward again, Kitty put her hand on her 
father’s shoulder. 

“Wait!” she cried. “I’m going to Phil. Curly, I want 
your horse; you can go with father.” 

The cowboy was on the ground before she had finished 
speaking. And before the automobile was under way Kitty 
; was riding back the way Curly had come. 

Kitty was scarcely conscious of what she had said. The 
cowboy’s first words had struck her with the force of a phys¬ 
ical blow, and in that first moment, she had been weak and 
helpless. She had felt as though a heavy weight pressed her 
down; a gray mist was before her eyes, and she could not see 
clearly. “Phil Acton is shot—Phil Acton is shot!” The 
cowboy’s words had repeated themselves over and over. 
Then, with a sudden rush, her strength came again—the mist 
cleared; she must go to Phil; she must go fast, fast. Oh, why 
was this horse so slow! If only she were riding her own Mid¬ 
night ! She did not think as she rode. She did not wonder, 


311 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

nor question, nor analyze her emotions. She only felt. It 
was Phil who was hurt—Phil, the boy with whom she had 
played when she was a little girl—the lad with whom she had 
gone to school—the young man who had won the first love 
of her young woman heart. It was Phil, her Phil, who wa3 
hurt, and she must go to him—she must go fast, fast! 

It seemed to Kitty that hours passed before she reached 
the meadow lane. She was glad that Curly had left the gates 
open. As she crossed the familiar ground between the old 
Acton home and the ranch house on the other side of the sandy ! 
wash, she saw them. They were carrying him into the house! 
as she rode into the yard, and at sight of that still form the| 
gray mist came again, and she caught the saddle horn to save 
herself from falling. But it was only a moment until she 
was strong again, and ready to do all that Mrs. Baldwin 
asked. 

Phil had regained consciousness before they started home 
with him, but he was very weak from the loss of blood and 
the journey in the buckboard, though Bob drove ever so care¬ 
fully, was almost more than he could bear. But with the 
relief that came when he was at last lying quietly in his own 
bed, and with the help of the stimulant, the splendid physical 
strength and vitality that was his because of his natural and 
unspoiled life again brought him back from the shadows into 
the light of full consciousness. 

It was then that the Dean, while Mrs. Baldwin and Kitty 
were occupied for a few moments in another part of the 
house, listened to all that his foreman could tell him about; 
the affair up to the time that he had fallen unconscious. The j 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

Dean asked but few questions. But when the details were all 
clearly fixed in his mind, the older man bent over Phil and 
looked straight into the lad’s clear and steady eyes, while he 
asked in a low tone, “Phil, did Patches do this ?” 

x\nd the young man answered, “Uncle Will, I don’t 
know.” 

With this he closed his eyes wearily, as though to sleep, 
and the Dean, seeing Kitty in the doorway, beckoned her to 
come and sit beside the bed. Then he stole quietly from the 
room. 

As in a dream Phil had seen Kitty when she rode into 
the yard. And he had been conscious of her presence as she 
] moved about the house and the room where he lay. But hfe 
i had given no sign that he knew she was there. As she seated 
herself, at the Dean’s bidding, the cowboy opened his eyes 
for a moment, and looked up into her face. Then again the 
weary lids closed, and he gave no hint that he recognized her, 
save that the white lips set in firmer lines as though at an¬ 
other stab of pain. 

As she watched alone beside this man who had, since she 
could remember, been a part of her life, and as she realized 
that he was on the very border line of that land from which, 
if he entered, he 'could never return to her, Kitty Reid 
knew the truth that is greater than any knowledge that the 
schools of man can give. She knew the one great truth of 
her womanhood; knew it not from text book or class room; 
not from learned professor or cultured associates; but knew 
it from that good Master of Life who, with infinite wisdom, 
teaches his many pupils who are free to learn in the school 


313 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


of schools, the School of Nature. In that hour when the 
near presence of death so overshadowed all the trivial and 
non-essential things of life—when the little standards and 
petty values of poor human endeavor were as nothing—this 
woman knew that by the unwritten edict of God, who decreed 
that in all life two should be as one, this man was her only 
law T ful mate. Environment, circumstance, that which we 
call culture and education, even death, might separate them; 
but nothing could nullify the fact that was attested by the 
instinct of her womanhood. Bending over the man who lay 
so still, she whispered the imperative will of her heart. 

“Come back to me, Phil—I want you—I need you, dear 
—come back to me!” 

Slowly he came out of the mists of weakness and pain to 
look up at her—doubtfully—wonderingly. But there was a 
light in Kitty’s face that dispelled the doubt, and changed 
the look of wondering uncertainty to glad conviction. He 
did not speak. No word was necessary. Nor did he move, 
for he must be very still, and hold fast with all his strength 
to the life that was now so good. But the woman knew with¬ 
out words all that he would have said, and as his eyes closed 
again she bowed her head in thankfulness. 

Then rising she stole softly to the window. She felt that 
she must look out for a moment into the world that was so 
suddenly new and beautiful. 

Under the walnut trees she saw the Dean talking with the 
man whom she had promised to marry. 

Later Mr. Reid, with Helen and Curly, brought the 
doctor, and the noise of the automobile summoned every soul 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


on the place to wait for the physician’s verdict of life or death. 

While the Dean was in Phil’s room with the physician, 
and the anxious ones were gathered in a little group in front 
of the house, Jim Reid stood apart from the others talking 
in low tones with the cowboy Bob. Patches, who was stand¬ 
ing behind the automobile, heard Bob, who had raised his 
voice a little, say distinctly, “I tell you, sir, there ain’t a bit 
of doubt in the world about it. There was the calf a layin’ 
right there fresh-branded and marked. He’d plumb forgot 
to turn it loose, I reckon, bein’ naturally rattled; or else he 
figgered that it warn’t no use, if Phil should be able to tell 
what happened. The way I make it out is that Phil jumped 
him right in the act, so sudden that he shot without thinkin’; 
you know how he acts quick that-a-way. An’ then he seen 
what he had done, an’ that it was more than an even break 
that Phil wouldn’t live, an’ so figgered that his chance was 
better to stay an’ run a bluff by cornin’ for help, an’ all that. 
If he’d tried to make his get-away, there wouldn’t ’a’ been 
no question about it; an’ he’s got just nerve enough to take 
the chance he’s a-takin’ by stayin’ right with the game.” 

Patches started as though to go toward the men, but at 
that moment the doctor came from the house. As the phy¬ 
sician approached the waiting group, that odd, mirthless, 
self-mocking smile touched Patches’ lips; then he stepped 
forward to listen with the others to the doctor’s words. 

Phil had a chance, the doctor said, but he told them 
frankly that it was only a chance. The injured man’s won¬ 
derful vitality, his clean blood and unimpaired physical 
strength, together with his unshaken nerve and an indomiP 


315 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


able will, were all greatly in bis favor. With careful nursing 
they might with reason hope for his recovery. 

With expressions of relief, the group separated. Patches 
walked away alone. Mr. Keid, who would return to Prescott 
with the doctor, said to his daughter when the physician was 
ready, “Come, Kitty, I’ll go by the house, so as to take you 
and Mrs. Manning home.” 

But Kitty shook her head. “No, father. I’m not going 
home. Stella needs me here. Helen understands, don’t you, 
Helen?” 

And wise Mrs. Manning, seeing in Kitty’s face something 
that the man had not observed, answered, “Yes, dear, I do 
understand. You must stay, of course. I’ll run over again 
in the morning.” 

“Very well,” answered Air. Keid, who seemed in some¬ 
what of a hurry. “I know you ought to stay. Tell Stella 
that mother will be over for a little while this evening.” And 
the automobile moved away. 



That night, while Airs. Baldwin and Kitty watched byi 
Phil’s bedside, and Patches, in his room, waited, sleepless,! 
alone with his thoughts, men from the ranch on the other side! 
of the quiet meadow were riding swiftly through the dark-1 
ness. Before the new day had driven the stars from the wide 
sky, a little company of silent, grim-faced horsemen gathered 
in the Pot-Hook-S corral. In the dim, gray light of the 
early morning they followed Jim Keid out of the corral, and, 


316 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


riding fast, crossed the valley above the meadows and ap¬ 
proached the Cross-Triangle corrals from the west. One man 
in the company led a horse with an empty saddle. Just 
beyond the little rise of ground outside the big gate they 
halted, while Jim Reid with two others, "leaving their horses 
with the silent riders behind the hill, went on into the corral, 
where they seated themselves on the edge of the long watering 
trough near the tank, which hid them from the house. 

Fifteen minutes later, when the Dean stepped from the 
kitchen porch, he saw Curly running toward the house. As 
the older man hurried toward him, the cowboy, pale with 
excitement and anger, cried, “They’ve got him, sir—grabbed 
him when he went out to the corral.” 

The Dean understood instantly. “My horse, quick, 
Curly,” he said, and hurried on toward the saddle shed. 
“Which way did they go ?” he asked, as he mounted. 

“Toward the cedars on the ridge where it happened,” 
came the answer. “Do you want me?” 

“No. Don’t let them know in the house,” came the 
reply. And the Dean was gone. 

The little company of horsemen, with Patches in their 
midst, had reached the scene of the shooting, and had made 
their simple preparations. Prom that moment when they 
had covered him with their guns as he stepped through 
the corral gate, he had not spoken. 

“Well, sir,” said the spokesman, “have you anything to 
nay before we proceed ?” 

Patches shook his head, and wonderingly they saw that 
hirious mocking smile ©n his lips. 

317 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“I don’t suppose that any remarks I might make would 
impress you gentlemen in the least/’ he said coolly. “It 
would he useless and unkind for me to detain you longer 
than is necessary.” 

An involuntary murmur of admiration came from the 
circle. They were men who could appreciate such unflinch¬ 
ing courage. 

In the short pause that followed, the Dean, riding as he 
had not ridden for years, was in their midst. Before they 
could check him the veteran cowman was beside Patches. 
With a quick motion he snatched the riata from the cowboy’s 
neck. An instant more, and he had cut the rope that bound 
Patches’ hands. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Patches calmly. 

“Don’t do that, Will,” called Jim Reid peremptorily. 
“This is our business.” In the same breath he shouted to 
his companions, “Take him again, boys,” and started for¬ 
ward. 

“Stand where you are,” roared the Dean, and as they 
looked upon the stern countenance' of the man who was so 
respected and loved throughout all that country, not a man 
moved. Reid himself involuntarily halted at the command. 

“I’ll do this and more, Jim Reid,” said the Dean firmly, 
and there was that in his voice which, in the wild days of 
the past, had compelled many a man to fear and obey him. 
“It’s my business enough that you can call this meetin’ off 
right here. I’ll be responsible for this man. You boys mean 
well, but you’re a little mite too previous this trip.” 

“We aim to put a stop to that thievin’ Tailholt Mountain 


318 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

outfit, Will,” returned Reid, “an’ we’re go in’ to do it right 
now.” 

A murmur of agreement came from the group. 

The Dean did not give an inch. “You’ll put a stop tc 
nothin’ this way; an’ you’ll sure start somethin’ that’ll be 
more than stealin’ a few calves. The time for stringin’ men 
up promiscuous like, on mere suspicion, is past in Arizona. 
I reckon there’s more Cross-Triangle stock branded with the 
Tailholt Mountain iron than all the rest of you put together 
have lost, which sure entitles me to a front seat when it 
comes to the show-down.” 

“He’s right, boys,” said one of the older men. 

“You know I’m right, Tom,” returned the Dean quickly. 
“You an’ me have lived neighbors for pretty near thirty 
years, without ever a hard word passed between us, an’ we’ve 
been through some mighty serious troubles together; an’ you, 
too, George, an’ Henry an’ Bill. The rest of you boys I 
have known since you was little kids; an’ me and your 
daddies worked an’ fought side by side for decent livin’ an’ 
law-abidin’ times before you was born. We did it ’cause we 
didn’t want our children to go through with what we had 
to go through, or do some of the things that we had to do. 
An’ now you’re all thinkin’ that you can cut me out of this. 
You think you can sneak out here before I’m out of my 
bed in the momin’, an’ hang one of my own cowboys—as 
good a man as ever throwed a rope, too. Without sayin’ a 
word to me, you come crawlin’ right into my own corral, an’ 
start to raisin’ hell. I’m here to tell you that you can’t do it. 
You can’t do it because I won’t let you.” 


319 


WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 


The men, with downcast eyes, sat on their horses, 
ashamed. Two or three muttered approval. Jim Reid said 
earnestly, “That’s all right, Will. We knew how you would 
feel, an’ we were just aimin’ to save you any more trouble. 
Them Tailholt Mountain thieves have gone too far this time. 
We can’t let you turn that man loose.” 

“I ain’t goin’ to try to turn him loose,” retorted the 
Dean. 

The men looked at each other. 

“What are you goin’ to do, then ?” asked the spokesman. 

“I’m goin’ to make you turn him loose,” came the start¬ 
ling answer. “You fellows took him; you’ve got to let him 
go.” 

In spite of the grave situation several of the men grinned 
at the Dean’s answer—it was so like him. 

“I’ll bet a steer he does it, too,” whispered one. 

The Dean turned to the man by his side. “Patches, tell 
these men all that you told me about this business.” 

When the cowboy had told his story in detail, up to the 
point where Phil came upon the scene, the Dean interrupted 
him, “Now, get down there an’ show us exactly how it hap¬ 
pened after Phil rode on to you an’ Yavapai Joe.” 

Patches obeyed. As he was showing them where Phil 
stood when the shot was fired the Dean again interrupted 
with, “Wait a minute. Tom, you get down there an’ stand 
just as Phil was standin’.” 

The cattleman obeyed. 

When he had taken the position, the Dean continued, 


320 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Now, Patches, stand like you was when Phil was hit.” 

Patches obeyed. 

“Now, then, where did that shot come from?” asked the 
Dean. 

Patches pointed. 

The Dean did not need to direct the next step in his 
demonstration. Three of the men were already off their 
horses, and moving around the bushes indicated by Patches. 

“Here’s the tracks, all right,” called one. “An’ here,” 
added another, from a few feet further away, “was where he 
left his horse.” 

“An’ now,” continued the Dean, when the three men had 
come back from behind the bushes, and with Patches had 
remounted their horses, “I’ll tell you somethin’ else. I had 
a talk with Phil himself, an’ the boy’s story agrees with 
what Patches has just told you in every point. An’, further¬ 
more, Phil told me straight when I asked him that he didn’t 
know himself who fired that shot.” 

He paused for a moment for them to grasp the full 
import of his words. Then he summed up the case. 

“As the thing stands, we’ve got no evidence against any¬ 
body. It can’t be proved that the calf wasn’t Nick’s property 
in the first place. It can't be proved that Nick was any¬ 
where in the neighborhood. It can’t be proved who fired 
that shot. It could have been Yavapai Joe, or anybody else, 
just as well as Nick. Phil himself, by bein’ too quick tc 
jump at conclusions, blocked this man’s game, just when he 
was playin’ the only hand that could have won out against 


321 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Nick. If Phil hadn’t ’a’ happened on to Patches and Joe 
when he did, or if he had been a little slower about findin’ 
a man guilty just because appearances were against him, we’d 
’a’ had the evidence from Yavapai Joe that we’ve been 
wantin’, an’ could ’a’ called the turn on that Tailholt outfit 
proper. As it stands now, we’re right where we was before. 
Now, what are you all go in’ to do about it?” 

The men grinned shamefacedly, but were glad that the 
tragedy had been averted. They were by no means convinced 
that Patches was not guilty, but they were quick to see the 
possibilities of a mistake in the situation. 

“I reckon the Dean has adjourned the meetin’, boys,” 
said one. 

“Come on,” called another. “Lefs be ridin’.” 

When the last man had disappeared in the timber, the 
Dean wiped the perspiration from his flushed face, and looked 
at Patches thoughtfully. Then that twinkle of approval 
came into the blue eyes, that a few moments before had been 
so cold and uncompromising. 

“Come, son,” he said gently, “let’s go t<> breakfast 
Stella’ll be wonderin’ what’s keepin’ us.” 



3 * 2 ° 









CHAP TER XVI. 

THE SKY LINE. 


EFORE their late breakfast was over at the Cross- ' 
Triangle Ranch, Helen Manning came across the 
valley meadows to help with the work of the house¬ 
hold. Jimmy brought her, but when she saw that 
she was really needed, and that Mrs. Baldwin would be glad 
of her help, she told Jimmy that she would stay for the day. 
Someone from the Cross-Triangle, the Dean said, would take 
her home when she was ready to go. 

The afternoon was nearly gone when Curly returned from 
the lower end of the valley with a woman who would relieve 
Mrs. Baldwin of the housework, and, as her presence was 
no longer needed, Helen told the Dean that she would return 
to the Reid home. 

“I’ll just tell Patches to take you over in the buckboard,” 
said the Dean. “It was mighty kind of you to give us a 
hand to-day; it’s been a big help to Stella and Kitty.” 

“Please don’t bother about the buckboard, Mr. Baldwin. 
I would enjoy the walk so much. But I would be glad if 

323 







WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

Mr. Patches could go with me—I would really feel safer, you 
know,” she smiled. 

Mrs. Baldwin was sleeping and Kitty was watching beside 
Phil, so the Dean himself went as far as the wash with 
Helen and Patches, as the two set out for their walk across 
the meadows. When Helen had said good-by to the Dean, 
with a promise to come again on the morrow, and he had 
turned back toward the house, she said to her companion, 
“Oh, Larry, I am so glad for this opportunity; I wanted to 
see you alone, and I couldn’t think how it was to be man¬ 
aged. I have something to tell you, Larry, something that 
I must tell you, and you must promise to be very patient 
with me.” 

“You know what happened this morning, do you?” he 
asked gravely, for he thought from her words that she had, : 
perhaps, chanced to hear of some further action to be taken 
by the suspicious cattlemen. 

“It was terrible—terrible, Larry. Why didn’t you tell 
them who you are? Why did you let them—” she could 
not finish. 

He laughed shortly. “It would have been such a sinful 
waste of words. Can’t you imagine me trying to make those 
men believe such a fairy story—under such circumstances ?” 

For a little they walked in silence; then he asked, “Is: 
it about Jim Reid’s suspicion that you wanted to see me, 
Helen ?” 

“No, Larry, it isn’t. It’s about Kitty,” she answered. 
“Oh!” 


324 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Kitty told mo all about it, to-day,” Helen continued. 
“The poor child is almost beside herself.” 

The man did not speak. Helen looked up at him almost 
as a mother might have done. 

“Do you love her so very much, Larry ? Tell me truly, 
do you ?” 

Patches could not—dared not—look at her. 

“Tell me, Larry,” she insisted gently. “I must know. 
Do you love Kitty as a man ought to love his wife ?” 

The man answered in a voice that was low and shaking 
with emotion. “Why should you ask me such a question? 
You know the answer. What right have you to force me to 
tell you that which you already know—that I love you— 
another man’s wife ?” 

Helen’s face w T ent white. In her anxiety for Kitty she 
had not foreseen this situation in which, by her question, 
she had placed herself. 

“Larry!” she said sharply. 

“Well,” he retorted passionately, “you insisted that I tell 
you the truth.” 

“I insisted that you tell me the truth about Kitty,” she 
returned. 

“Well, you have it,” he answered quickly. 

“Oh, Larry,” she cried, “how could you—how could you 
ask a woman you do not love to be your wife ? How could 
you do it, Larry? And just when I was so proud of you; 
so glad for you that you had found yourself; that you were 
such a splendid man I” 


325 


WHEY A MAN’S A MAN 


“Kitty and I are the best of friends/’ he answered in a 
dull, spiritless tone, “the best of companions. In the past 
year I have grown very fond of her—we have much in com¬ 
mon. I can give her the life she desires—the life she is 
fitted for. I will make her happy; I will he true to her; 
I will he to her everything that a man should he to his wife.” 

“No, Larry,” she said gently, touched by the hopelessness 
in his voice, for he had spoken as though he already knew 
that his attempt to justify his engagement to Kitty was vain. 
“No, Larry, you cannot he to Kitty everything that a man 
should he to his wife. You cannot, without love, he a hus¬ 
band to her.” 

Again they walked in silence for a little way. Then 
Helen asked: “And are you sure, Larry, that Kitty cares 
for you—as a woman ought to care, I mean ?” 

“I could not have asked her to he my wife if I had not 
thought so,” he answered, with more spirit. 

“Of course,” returned his companion gently, “and Kitty 
could not have answered, ‘yes/ if she had not believed that 
you loved her.” 

“Do you mean that you think Kitty does not care for 
me, Helen?” 

“I know that she loves Phil Acton, Larry. I saw it in 
her face when we first learned that he was hurt. And to-day 
the poor girl confessed it. She loved him all the time, Larry 
—has loved him ever since they were boy and girl together. 
She has tried to deny her heart—she has tried to put other 
things above her love, but she knows now that she cannot. 


326 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


It is fortunate for you both that she realized her love for 
Mr. Acton before she had spoiled not only her own life but 
yours as well.” 

“But, how could she promise to be my wife when she 
loved Phil ?” he demanded. 

“But, how could you ask her when you—” Helen retorted 
quickly, without thinking of herself. Then she continued 
bravely, putting herself aside in her effort to make him under¬ 
stand. “You tempted her, Larry. You did not mean it so, 
perhaps, but you did. You tempted her with your wealth 
—with all that you could give her of material luxuries and 
ease and refinement. You tempted her to substitute those 
things for love. I know, Larry—I know, because you see, 
dear man, I was once tempted, too.” 

He made a gesture of protest, but she went on, “You 
did not know, but I can tell you now that nothing but the 
memory of my dear father’s teaching saved me from a ter¬ 
rible mistake. You are a man now, Larry. You are more 
to me than any man in the world, save one; and more than 
any man in the world, save that one, I respect and admire 
you for the manhood you have gained. But oh, Larry, 
Larry, don’t you see? 'When a mans a man there is one 
thing above all others that he cannot do. He cannot take 
advantage of a woman’s weakness; he cannot tempt her 
beyond her strength; he must be strong both for himself and 
her; he must save her always from herself.” 

The man lifted his head and looked away toward Granite 
Mountain. As once before this woman had aroused him to 


327 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


assert his manhood’s strength, she called now to all that was 
finest and truest in the depth of his being. 

“You are always right, Helen,” he said, almost reverently. 

“No, Larry,” she answered quickly, “but you know that 
I am right in this.” 

“I will free Kitty from her promise at once,” he said, 
as though to end the matter. 

Helen answered quickly. “But that is exactly what you 
must not do.” 

The man was bewildered. “Why, I thought—what in 
the world do you mean ?” 

She laughed happily as she said, “Stupid Larry, don’t 
you understand ? You must make Kitty send you about your 
business. You must save her self-respect. Can’t you see 
how ashamed and humiliated she would be if she imagined 
for a moment that you did not love her? Think what she 
would suffer if she knew that you had merely tried to buy 
her with your -wealth and the things you possess!” 

She disregarded his protest. 

“That’s exactly what your proposal meant, Larry. A 
girl like Kitty, if she knew the truth of what she had done, 
might even fancy herself unworthy to accept her happiness 
now that it has come. You must make her dismiss you, 
and all that you could give her. You must make her proud 
and happy to give herself to the man she loves.” 

“But—what can I do ?” he asked in desperation. 

“I don’t know, Larry. But you must manage somehow— 
for Kitty’s sake you must ” 


328 






WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“If only the Dean had not interrupted the proceedings 
this morning, how it would have simplified everything!” he 
mused, and she saw that as always he was laughing at him¬ 
self. 

“Don’t, Larry; please don’t,” she cried earnestly. 

He looked at her curiously. “Would you have me lie to 
her, Helen—deliberately lie ?” 

She answered quietly. “I don’t think that I would raise 
that question, if I were you, Larry—considering all the cir¬ 
cumstances.” 



On his way back to the Cross-Triangle, Patches walked 
as a man who, having determined upon a difficult and dis¬ 
tasteful task, is of a mind to undertake it without delay. 

After supper that evening he managed to speak to Kitty 
when no one was near. 

“I must see you alone for a few minutes to-night,” he 
whispered hurriedly. “As soon as possible. I will be under 
the trees near the bank of the wash. Come to me as soon 
as it is dark, and you can slip away.” 

The young woman wondered at his manner. He was so 
hurried, and appeared so nervous and unlike himself. 

“But, Patches, I—” 

“You must!” he interrupted with a quick look toward 
the Dean, who was approaching them. “I have something 
to tell you—something that I must tell you to-night.” 


329 


WHEY A MAY’S A MAY 


He turned to speak to the Dean, and Kitty presently left 
them. An hour later, when the night had come, she found 
him waiting as he had said. 

“Listen, Kitty!” he began abruptly, and she thought from 
his manner and the tone of his voice that he was in a state 
of nervous fear. “I must go; I dare not stay here another 
day; I am going to-night.” 

“Why, Patches,” she said, forcing herself to speak quietly 
in order to calm him. “What is the matter ?” 

“Matter?” he returned hurriedly. “You know what they 
tried to do to me this morning.” 

Kitty was shocked. It was true that she did not—could 
not—care for this man as she loved Phil, but she had thought 
him her dearest friend, and she respected and admired him. 
It was not good to find him now like this—shaken and 
afraid. She could not understand. For the moment her 
own trouble was put aside by her honest concern for him. 

“But, Patches,” she said earnestly, “that is all past now; • 
it cannot happen again.” 

“You do not know,” he returned, “or you would not feel 
so sure. Phil might—” He checked himself as if he feared 
to finish the sentence. 

Kitty thought now that there must be more cause for his 
manner than she had guessed. 

“But you are not a cattle thief,” she protested. “You 
have only to explain who you are; no one would for a 
moment believe that Lawrence Knight com 1 be guilty of 
stealing; it’s ridiculous on the face of it!” 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“You do not understand/’ he returned desperately. 
“There is more in this than stealing.” 

Kitty started. “You don’t mean, Patches—you can’t 
mean—Phil—” she gasped. 

“Yes, I mean Phil,” he whispered. “I—we were quarrel¬ 
ing—I was angry. My God! girl, don’t you see why I must 
go ? I dare not stay. Listen, Kitty! It will he all right. 
Once I am out of this country and living under my own name 
I will be safe. Later you can come to me. You will come, 
won’t you, dear? You know how I want you; this need 
make no change in our plans. If you love me you—” 

She stopped him with a low cry. “And you—it was you 
who did that ?” 

“But I tell you we were quarreling, Kitty,” he protested 
weakly. 

“And you think that I could go to you now ?” She was 
trembling with indignation. “Oh, you are so mistaken. It 
seems that I was mistaken, too. I never dreamed that you— 
nothing—nothing, that you could ever do would make me 
forget what you have told me. You are right to go.” 

“You mean that you will not come to me ?” he faltered. 

“Could you really think that I would ?” she retorted. 

“But, Kitty, you will let me go? You will not betray 
me ? You will give me a chance ?” 

“It is the only thing that I can do,” she answered coldly. 
“I should die of shame, if it were ever known that I had 
thought of being more to you than I have been; but you 
must go to-night.” 


331 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


And with this she left him, fairly running toward the 
house. 

Alone in the darkness, Honorable Patches smiled mock¬ 
ingly to himself. 



When morning came there was great excitement at the \ 
Cross-Triangle Ranch. Patches was missing. And more, 
the best horse in the Dean’s outfit—the big bay with the | 
blazed face, had also disappeared. 

Quickly the news spread throughout the valley, and to | 
the distant ranches. And many were the wise heads that | 
nodded understanding^; and many were the “I told you $ 
so’s.” The man who had appeared among them so mysteri-1 
ously, and who, for a year, had been a never-failing topic 
of conversation, had finally established his character beyond 1 
all question. But the cattlemen felt with reason, because of 
the Dean’s vigorous defense of the man when they would ‘ 
have administered justice, that the matter w T as now in his 
hands. They offered their services, and much advice; they 
quietly joked about the price of horses; but the Dean laughed f 
at their jokes, listened to their advice, and said that he 
thought the sheriff of Yavapai County could be trusted to 
handle the case. 

To Helen only Kitty told of her last interview with 
Patches. And Helen, shocked and surprised at the thorough¬ 
ness with which the man had brought about Kitty’s freedom 


332 








WHEN" A MAN’S A MAN 


and peace of mind, bade tbe girl forget and be bappy. 

When tbe crisis was passed, and Pbil was out of danger, 
Kitty returned to ber home, but every day she and Helen 
drove across tbe meadows to see bow tbe patient was progress¬ 
ing. Then one day Helen said good-by to her Williamson 
Valley friends, and went with Stanford to tbe borne be bad 
prepared for ber. And after that Kitty spent still more of 
ber time at tbe bouse across the wash from tbe old Acton 
homestead. 

It was during those weeks of Phil’s recovery, while be 
was slowly regaining bis full measure of health and strength, 
that Kitty learned to know tbe cowboy in a way that she 
bad never permitted herself to know him before. Little by 
little, as they sat together under tbe walnut trees, or walked 
slowly about tbe place, tbe young woman came to under¬ 
stand tbe mind of tbe man. As Pbil shyly at nrst, then 
more freely, opened the doors of bis inner self and talked to 
ber as be bad talked to Patches of tbe books be bad read; 
of bis observations and thoughts of nature, and of tbe great 
world movements and activities that by magazines and books 
and papers were brought to bis band, she learned to ber 
surprise that even as be lived amid tbe scenes that called 
for tbe highest type of physical strength and courage, be lived 
an intellectual life that was as marked for its strength and 
manly vigor. 

But while they came thus daily into more intimate and 
closer companionship they spoke to no one of their love. 
Kitty, knowing bow ber father would look upon ber engage- 


333 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


ment to the cowboy, put off the announcement from time to : 
time, not wishing their happy companionship to be marred 
during those days of Phil’s recovery. 

When he was strong enough to ride again, Kitty would 
come with Midnight, and together they would roam about 
the ranch and the country near by. So it happened that 
Sunday afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Reid, with the three hoys, 
were making a neighborly call on the Baldwins, and Phil 
and Kitty were riding in the vicinity of the spot where 
Kitty had first met Patches. 

They were seated in the shade of a cedar on the ridge 
not far from the drift fence gate, when Phil saw three horse¬ 
men approaching from the further side of the fence. By the 
time the horsemen had reached the gate, Phil knew them to 
be Yavapai Joe, Nick Cambert and Honorable Patches.; 
Kitty, too, had, by this time, recognized the riders, and with; 
an exclamation started to rise to her feet. 

But Phil said quietly, “Wait, Kitty; there’s something 
about that outfit that looks mighty queer to me.” 

The men were riding in single file, with Yavapai Joe in! 
the lead and Patches last, and their positions were not changed! 
when they halted while Joe, without dismounting, unlatched 
the gate. They came through the opening, still in the same 
order, and as they halted again, while Patches closed the 
gate, Phil saw what it was that caused them to move with 
such apparent lack of freedom in their relative positions, 
and why Nick Cambert’s attitude in the saddle was so stiff 
and unnatural. Nick’s hands were secured behind his hack, 
and his feet were tied under the horse from stirrup to stirrup, 


334 







WHEK A MAK’S A MA ¥ 

while his horse was controlled by a lead rope, one end of 
which was made fast to Yavapai Joe’s saddle horn. 

Patches caught sight of the two under the tree as he 
came through the gate, but he gave no sign that he had 
noticed them. As the little procession moved slowly nearer, 
Phil and Kitty looked at each other without a word, but as 
they turned again to watch the approaching horsemen, Kitty 
impulsively grasped Phil’s arm. And sitting so, in such 
unconscious intimacy, they must have made a pleasing pic- 
ture; at least the man who rode behind Kick Cambert seemed 
to think so, for he was trying to smile. 

When the riders were almost within speaking distance 
of the pair under the tree, they stopped; and the watchers 
saw Joe turn his face toward Patches for a moment, then 
look in their direction. Kick Cambert did not raise his 
head. Patches came on toward them alone. 

As they saw that it was the man’s purpose to speak to 
them, Phil and Kitty rose and stood waiting, Kitty with her 
hand still on her companion’s arm. And now, as they were 
given a closer and less obstructed view of the man who had 
been their friend, Kitty and Phil again exchanged wondering 
glances. This was not the Honorable Patches whom they 
had known so intimately. The man’s clothing was soiled 
with dirt, and old from rough usage, with here and there a 
ragged tear. His tall form drooped with weariness, and his 
unshaven face, dark and deeply tanned, and grimed with 
sweat and dirt, was thin and drawn and old, and his tired 
syes, deep set in their dark hollows, were bloodshot as though 
from sleepless nights. His dry lips parted in a painful 


335 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


smile, as be dismounted stiffly and limped courteously for¬ 
ward to greet them. 

“I know that I am scarcely presentable,” be said in a 
voice that was as worn and old as bis face, “but I could not 
resist tbe temptation to say ‘Howdy’. Perhaps I should 
introduce myself though,” be added, as if to save them from 
embarrassment. “My name is Lawrence Knight; I am a 
deputy sheriff of this county.” A slight movement as he 
spoke threw back his unbuttoned jumper, and they saw the 
badge of his office. “In my official capacity I am taking a 
prisoner to Prescott.” 

Phil recovered first, and caught the officer’s hand in a 
grip that told more than words. 

Kitty nearly betrayed her secret when she gasped, “But 
you—you said that you—” 

With his ready skill he saved her, “That my name was 
Patches ? I know it was wrong to deceive you as I did, and 
I regret that it was necessary for me to lie so deliberately, 
but the situation seemed to demand it. And I hoped that 
when you understood you would forgive the part I was forcecL 
to play for the good of everyone interested.” 

Kitty understood the meaning in his words that was 
unknown to Phil, and her eyes expressed the gratitude that 
she could not speak. 

“By the way,” Patches continued, “I am not mistaken 
in offering my congratulations and best wishes, am I ?” 

They laughed happily. 

“We have made no announcement yet,” Phil answered, 
“but you seem to know everything.” 


336 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“I feel like saying from the bottom of my heart 'God 
bless you, my children.’ You make me feel strangely old,” 
he returned, with a touch of his old wistfulness. Then he 
added in his droll way, "Perhaps, though, it’s from living in 
the open and sleeping in my clothes so long. Talk about 
horses, I’d give my kingdom for a bath, a shave and a clean 
shirt. I had begun to think that our old friend Nick never 
would brand another calf; that he had reformed, just to get 
even with me, you know. By the way, Phil, you will be 
interested to know that Nick is the man who is really 
responsible for your happiness.” 

"How?” demanded Phil. 

"Why, it was Nick who fired the shot that brought Kitty 
to her senses. My partner there, Yavapai Joe, saw him do it. 
If you people would like to thank my prisoner, I will per¬ 
mit it.” 

When they had decided that they would deny themselves 
that pleasure, Patches said, "I don’t blame you; he’s a surly, 
ill-tempered beast, anyway. Which reminds me that I must 
be about my official business, and land him in Prescott 
to-night. I am going to stop at the ranch and ask the Dean 
for the team and buckboard, though,” he added, as he climbed 
painfully into the saddle. "Adios! my children. Don’t stay 
out too late.” 

Hand in hand they watched him rejoin his companions 
and ride away behind the two Tailholt Mountain men. 



337 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


The Dean and Mrs. Baldwin, with their friends from 
the neighboring ranch, were enjoying their Sunday after- ; 
noon together as old friends will, when the three Beid boys 
and Little Billy came running from the corral where they 
had been holding an amateur bronco riding contest with a < 
calf for the wild and wicked outlaw. As they ran toward j 
the group under the walnut trees, the lads disturbed the 
peaceful conversation of their elders with wild shouts of j 
“Patches has come back! Patches has come back! Nick 
Cambert is with him—so’s Yavapai Joe!” 

Jim Beid sprang to his feet. But the Dean calmly kept 
his seat, and glancing up at his big friend with twinkling 
eyes, said to the boys, with pretended gruffness, “Aw, what’s 
the matter with you kids ? Don’t you know that horse thief j 
Patches wouldn’t dare show himself in Williamson Valley j 
again ? You’re havin’ bad dreams—that’s what’s the matter 
with you. Or else you’re try in’ to scare us.” 

“Honest, it’s Patches, Uncle Will,” cried Littly Billy. 

“We seen him cornin’ from over beyond the corral,” said ! 
Jimmy. 

“I saw him first,” shouted Conny. “I was up in the 
grand stand—I mean on the fence.” 

“Me, too,” chirped Jack. 

Jim Beid stood looking toward the corral. “The boys 
are right, Will,” he said in a low tone. “There they come j 
now.” 

. As the three horsemen rode into the yard, and the I 
watchers noted the peculiarity of their companionship, Jim 
Beid muttered something under his breath. But the 

338 


l 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


Bean, as lie rose leisurely to his feet, was smiling broadly. 

The little procession halted when the horses evidenced 
their dislike of the automobile, and Patches came stiffly 
forward on foot. Lifting his battered hat courteously to the 
company, he said to the Bean, “I have returned your horse, 
sir. I’m very much obliged to you. I think you will find 
him in fairly good condition.” 

Jim Reid repeated whatever it was that he had muttered 
to himself. 

The Bean chuckled. “Jim,” he said to the big cattle¬ 
man, “I want to introduce my friend, Mr. Lawrence Knight, 
one of Sheriff Gordon’s deputies. It looks like he had been 
busy over in the Tailholt Mountain neighborhood.” 

The two men shook hands silently. Mrs. Reid greeted 
the officer cordially, while Mrs. Baldwin, to the Bean’s great 
delight, demonstrated her welcome in the good old-fashioned 
mother way. 

“Will Baldwin, I could shake you,” she cried, as Patches 
stood, a little confused by her impulsive greeting. “Here 
you knew all the time; and you kept pesterin’ me by trying 
to make me believe that you thought he had run away because 
he was a thief!” 

It was, perhaps, the proudest moment of the Bean’s life 
when he admitted that Patches had confided in him that 
morning when they were so late to breakfast. And how he 
had understood that the man’s disappearance and the pretense 
of stealing a horse had been only a blind. The good Bean 
never dreamed that there was so much more in Honorable 
Patches’ strategy than he knew! 

339 




WHEE a MAE’S A MAE 


“Mr. Baldwin,” said Patches presently, “could you let 
me have the team and buckboard ? I want to get my prisoner 
to Prescott to-night, and”—he laughed shortly—“well, I 
certainly would appreciate those cushions.” 

“Sure, son, you can have the whole Cross-Triangle outfit, 
if you want it,” answered the Dean. “But hold on a minute.” 
He turned with twinkling eyes to his neighbor. “Here’s 
Jim with a perfectly good automobile that don’t seem to be 
busy.” 

The big man responded cordially. “Why, of course; I’ll 
be glad to take you in.” 

“Thank you,” returned Patches. “I’ll be ready in a 
minute.” 

“But you’re goin’ to have something to eat first,” cried 
Mrs. Baldwin. “I’ll bet you’re half starved; you sure look 
it.” 

Patches shook his head. “Don’t tempt me, mother; I 
can’t stop now.” 

“But you’ll come back home to-night, won’t you?” she 
asked anxiously. 

“I would like to,” he said. “And may I bring a friend ?” 

“Your friends are our friends, son,” she answered. 

“Of course he’s cornin’ back,” said the Dean. “Where 
else would he go, I’d like to know ?” 

They watched him as he went to his prisoner, and as, 
unlocking the handcuff that held Eick’s right wrist, he 
re-locked it on his own left arm, thus linking his prisoner 
securely to himself. Then he spoke to Joe, and the young 
man, dismounting, unfastened the rope that bound Eick’s 


340 




WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 

feet. When Nick was on the ground the three came toward 
the machine. 

“I am afraid I must ask you to let someone take care of 
the horses/’ called Patches to the Dean. 

“I’ll look after them,” the Dean returned. “Don’t forget 
now that you’re cornin’ back to-night; Jim will bring you.” 

Jim Reid, as the three men reached the automobile, said 
ic Patches, “Will you take both of your prisoners in the 
back seat with you, or shall I take one of them in front 
with me?” 

Patches looked the big man straight in the eyes, and 
they heard him answer with significant emphasis, as he 
placed his free hand on Yavapai Joe’s shoulder, “I have 
>nly one prisoner, Mr. Reid. This man is my friend. He 
will take whatever seat he prefers.” 

Yavapai Joe climbed into the rear seat with the officer 
and his prisoner. 

It was after dark when Mr. Reid returned to the ranch 
with Patches and Joe. 

“You will find your room all ready, son,” said Mrs. 
Baldwin, “and there’s plenty of hot water in the bathroom 
tank for you both. Joe can take the extra bed in Curly’s 
room. You show him. I’ll have your supper as soon as 
ou are ready.” 

Patches almost fell asleep at the table. As soon as they 
had finished he went to his bed, where he remained, as Phil 
reported at intervals during the next forenoon, “dead to the 
world,” until dinner time. In the afternoon they gathered 
under the walnut trees—the Cross-Triangle household and 


341 



WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 

the friends from the neighboring ranch—and Patches told 
them his story; how, when he had left the ranch that night, 
he had ridden straight to his old friend Stanford Manning; 
and how Stanford had gone with him to the sheriff, where, 
through Manning's influence, together with the letter which 
Patches had brought from the Dean, he had been made an 
officer of the law. As he told them briefly of his days and 
nights alone, they needed no minute details to understand 
what it had meant to him. 

“It wasn't the work of catching Nick in a way to ensure 
his conviction that I minded," he said, “but the trouble 
was, that while I was watching Nick day and night, and 
dodging him all the time, I was afraid some enthusiastic 
cow-puncher would run on to me and treat himself to ■ 
shot just for luck. Not that I would have minded that so 
much, either, after the first week," he added in his droll way, 
“but considering all the circumstances it would have been 
rather a poor sort of finish." 

“And what about Yavapai Joe ?" asked Phil. 

Patches smiled. “Where is Joe? What's he been doinv 
all day?" 

The Dean answered. “He's just been moseyin' around 
I tried to get him to talk, but all he would say was that 
he'd rather let Mr. Knight tell it." 

“Billy," said Patches, “will you find Yavapai Joe, and 
tell him that I would like to see him here ?" 

When Little Billy, with the assistance of Jimmy and 
Conny and Jack, had gone proudly on his mission, Patches 
said to the others, “Technically, of course, Joe is my prisoner 
342 





WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


until after the trial, but please don’t let him feel it He 
pill be the principal witness for the state.” 

When Yavapai Joe appeared, embarrassed and ashamed 
n their presence, Patches said, as courteously as he would 
lave introduced an equal, “Joe, I want my friends to know 
your real name. There is no better place in the world than 
right here to start that job of man-making that we have 
talked about. You remember that I told you how I started 
here.” 

Yavapai Joe lifted his head and stood straighter by his 
tall friend’s side, and there was a new note in his voice as 
he answered, “Whatever you say goes, Mr. Knight.” 

Patches smiled. “Friends, this is Mr. Joseph Parkhil], 
the only son of the distinguished Professor Parkhill, whom 
you all know so well.” 

If Patches had planned to enjoy the surprise his words 
caused, he could not have been disappointed. 

Presently, when Joe had slipped away again, Patches 
told them how, because of his interest in the young man, and 
because of the lad’s strange knowledge of Professor Parkhill, 
he had written east for the distinguished scholar’s history. 

“The professor himself was not really so much to blame,” 
said Patches. “It seems that he was born to an intellectual 
life. The poor fellow never had a chance. Even as a child 
he was exhibited as a prodigy—a shining example of the 
possibilities of the race, you know. His father, who was 
also a professor of some sort, died when he was a baby. His 
mother, unfortunately, possessed an income sufficient to make 
it unnecessary that Everard Charles should ever do a day’s 


343 




WHEN A MAN’S , MAN 

real work. At the age of tweiuv, was graduated from 
college; at the age of twenty-on. 1 he vas married to—or 
perhaps it would be more accurate to ay—he was married 
by —his landlady’s daughter. Quko likely the woman was 
ambitious to break into that h her I i'V- to which the profes¬ 
sor aspired, and caught her cultured ortunity in an un¬ 
guarded moment. The details ire ar. But when their 

only child, Joe, was six yea • dd, mother ran away 
with a carpenter who had bt at w,-:k on the house for 
some six weeks. A maiden aunt of some fifty years, who 
was a worshiper of the professor’s cult, came to keep his 
house and to train Joe in the way that good boys should go. 

“But the lad proved rather too great a burden, and when 
he was thirteen they sent him to a school out here in the 
West, ostensibly for the benefit of the climate. The boy, 
it was said, being of abnormal mentality, needed to pursue 
his studies under the most favorable physical conditions. 
The professor, unhampered by his offspring, continued to 
climb his aesthetic ladder to intellectual and cultured glory. 
The boy in due time escaped from the school, and w r as edu¬ 
cated by the man Drvden and Nick Cambert.” 

“And what will become of him now ?” asked the Dean. 

Patches smiled. “Why, the lad is twenty-one now, and 
we have agreed that it is about time that he began to make 
a man of himself—I can help him a little, perhaps—I have 
been trying occasionally the past year. But you see the con¬ 
ditions have not been altogether favorable to the experiment. 
It should be easy from now on.” 


344 


WHEX A MAX'S A MAX 



During the time that intervened before the trial of the 
Tailholt Mountain man, Phil and Patches re-established that 
intimate friendship of those first months of their work 
together. Then came the evening when Phil went across the 
meadow to ask Jim Peid for his daughter. 

The big cattleman looked at his young neighbor with 
frowning disapproval. 

“It won’t do, Phil,” he said at last. “I’m Kitty’s father, 
and it’s up to me to look out for her interests. You know 
how I’ve educated her for something better than this life. 
She may think now that she is willin’ to throw it all away, 
but I know better. The time would come when she would 
be miserable. It’s got to be somethin’ more than a common 
cow-puncher for Kitty, Phil, and that’s the truth.” 

The cowboy did not argue. “Do I understand that your 
only objection is based upon the business in which I am en¬ 
gaged ?” he asked coolly. 

Jim laughed. “The business in which you are engaged? 
Why, boy, you sound like a first national bank. If you had 
any business of your own—if you was the owner of an outfit, 
an’ could give Kitty the—well—the things her education has 
taught her to need, it would be different. I know you’re a 
fine man, all right, but you’re only a poor cow-puncher just 
the same. I’m speakin’ for your own good, Phil, as well as 
for Kitty’s,” he added, with an effort at kindliness. 



WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


“Then, if I had a good business, it would be different ?” 

“Yes, son, it would sure make all the difference in the 
world.” 

“Thank you,” said the cowboy quietly, as he handed Mr. 
Reid a very legal looking envelope. “I happen to be half 
owner of this ranch and outfit. With my own property, it 
makes a fairly good start for a man of my age. My partner, 
Mr. Lawrence Knight, leaves the active management wholly 
in my hands; and he has abundant capital to increase our 
holdings and enlarge our operations just as fast as we can 
handle the business.” 

The big man looked from the papers to the lad, then back 
to the papers. Then a broad smile lighted^is heavy face, as 
he said, “I give it up—you win. You young fellers are too 
swift for me. I’ve been wantin’ to retire anyway.” He 
raised his voice and called, “Kitty—oh, Kitty!” 

The girl appeared in the doorway. 

“Come and get him,” said Reid. “I guess he’s yours.” 



Helen Manning was sitting on the front porch of tha 
little cottage on the mountain side where she and Stanfor 
began their years of home-building. A half mile below she 
could see the mining buildings that were grouped about the 
shaft in picturesque disorder. Above, the tree-clad ridge rose 
against the sky. It was too far from the great world of cities, 
some would have said, but Helen did not find it so. With her 
books and her music, and the great out-of-doors; and with the 

346 


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN 


companionship of her mate and the dreams they dreamed 
together, her woman heart was never lonely. 

She lowered the book she was reading, and looked through 
the open window to the clock in the living-room. A little 
while, and she would go down the kill to Stanford, for they 
loved to walk home together. Then, before lifting the printed 
page again, she looked over the wide view of rugged mountain 
sides and towering peaks that every day held for her some 
new beauty. She had resumed her reading when the sound 
of horses’ feet attracted her attention. 

Patches and Yavapai Joe were riding up the hill. 

They stopped at the gate, and while Joe held Stranger’s 
bridle rein, Patches came to Helen as she stood on the porch 
waiting to receive him. 

“Surely you will stay for the night,” she urged when they 
had exchanged greetings, and had talked for a little while. 

“No,” he answered quietly. “I just came this way to say 
good-by; I stopped for a few minutes with Stan at the office. 
He said I would find you here.” 

“But where are you going ?” she asked. 

Smiling he, waved his hand. toward the mountain ridge 
above. “Just over the sky line, Helen.” 

“But, Larry, you will come again ? You won’t let us lose 
you altogether ?” 

“Perhaps—some day,” he said. 

“And who is that with you ?” 

“Just a friend who cares to go with me. Stan will tell 
you.” 

“Oh, Larry, Larry! What a man you are!” she cried 

347 



WHE1ST A MAH’S A MAN 


proudly, as lie stood before her holding out his hand. 

“If you think so, Helen, I am glad,” he answered, and 
turned away. 

So she watched him go. Sitting there at home, she 
watched him ride up the winding road. How he was in full 
view on some rocky shoulder of the mountain—now some turn 
carried him behind a rocky point—again she glimpsed him 
through the trees—again he was lost to her in the shadows. 
At last, for a moment, he stood out boldly against the wide- 
arched sky—and then he had passed from sight—over the 
sky line, as he had said. 



348 


OTHER. BOOKS 

By the Author of 

When a Man’s a Man 

Oregon Journal, Portland —It is this almost clairvoyant power 
of reading the human soul that has made Mr. Wright’s books 
among the most remarkable works of the present age. 


Philadelphia Dispatch —The secret of his power is the same 
God-given secret that inspired Shakespeare and upheld Dickens. 

Nearly Seven Million Copies of Harold 
Bell Wright’s books have been sold 

Tfie great heart of the reading public 
is an unprejudiced critic 


The Eyes of the World 


Portland Oregonian —“The Eyes of the World” is an unusual 
novel. It is that rare event, a pure love story. It deals sledge¬ 
hammer blows at animalism and sensualism, and is as a strong 
white light on a rock illumining the dark valley below. 


Grand Rapids Herald —When the author produced “The Winning 
3f Barbara Worth,” the reading public believed he had written 
nis masterpiece of fiction but this literary genius, the wizard of 
■ American novelists, has surprised the literators in “The Eyes of 
the World” . . . the most intense and dramatic novel of 
today. 


Pittsburg Chronicle Telegraph —This is the most vigorous of 
all Mr. Wright’s novels . . . the sort of book that long has 
been needed as a rebuke to writers, women as well as men, 
who have catered to the appetite for debasing literature. 















THEIR YESTERDAYS 


T 


Nashville Tennesseean —Some one has called Harold Bell 
Wright “the apostle of the wholesome” in fiction, and his latest 
volume, “Their Yesterdays,” certainly bears out his claim to the 
title. Also it shows the man’s remarkable genius. We may 
liken the perusal of the book to listening to some magnificent 
organ played soft and low by a master hand. And, as one 
never wearies of gazing upon great paintings nor of listening 
to the uplifting strains of fine music so one reads this volume 
with deep appreciation and pays the tribute of regret when it 
is ended. 

Cincinnati Enquirer —Never yet has his output been either 
wholesomer or of more vital “human interest,” and on the 
strength of its truth, which is mined from under good^ old- 
fashioned moral bedrock, one should like to see it read uni¬ 
versally by the American public. It breathes the same healthful 
atmosphere that has characterized all of the product of the 
novelist’s brilliant and vigorous pen, dipped in the ink of an 
instructive life—experience. 


THE WINNING OF 
BARBARA WORTH 


Chicago Record-Herald —It is a novel with “body,” with a large 
and timely idea back of it, with sound principles under it, and 
with a good crescendo of dramatic thrills. 

Boston Globe —To the reader the characters will appear as real 
as friends they know—all of their aims, and likes, and hatreds 
being portrayed as true to life as snapshots caught by moving- 
picture cameras. 


Cleveland Plain Dealer —“The Calling of Dan Matthews” was a j 
fine tale; “The Shepherd of the Hills” was an inspiration. And j 
now he sends us “The Winning of Barbara Worth”—the best j 
thing he has done so far ... a twentieth century epic. 








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